


Angel City

by Writer207



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angels are Dicks, Castiel-centric, Character Death, Gen, Genetics, Light Angst, More to Follow - Freeform, Murder, Resistance, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2020-11-28 11:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 68,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20965544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer207/pseuds/Writer207
Summary: Angels are superhuman in every sense of the word: they happened to have the right genes that gave them amazing gifts, but also made most of them cruel. Their rule over the city has created a resistance, an underground organization that will not rest until they get rid of Michael, the angel leader, and install a human council.Castiel, a young angel, has been chosen to infiltrate the resistance and destroy this threat from the inside out. But his job will be much harder than first anticipated when Dean Winchester decides to keep an eye on him.(updated weekly)





	1. Prologue

The man woke up the little girl in her bedroom. He placed a cold hand on her shoulder and commanded her to wake up in a deep voice.

It worked. The girl sat up from the bed and turned her head to him. The blonde hair obscured her face. A face would not recognize now. A face that could not have been older than twelve.

"What's going on, daddy?" she asked in a confused, juvenile voice.

"Come." He shifted his hand from her shoulder to her hand, which she gripped. "Let's go outside."

The girl stood from her bed. He picked her up and carried her out of the house. Out of the bedroom, through the hallway, down the stairs – mind the kerosene on the side and don't step in it. It is already sufficiently spread out, no need to spread it out even further by walking into it.

He looked aside. His eyes fell on an old clock that survived the Great Disaster. It had been in the woman's family for generations. She was rather fond of this clock, which indicated it was approximately midnight. Time ticked away, one second at a time, each of its ticks deafening. But he turned his head away.

He carried the girl into the night. The world was asleep, the street lights provided the only light. There was no traffic at this hour; there never was. This was the world just as he liked it to be at this moment.

The man only placed the girl on the sidewalk behind the white picket fence. She looked at him. He firmly placed his hands on her shoulders.

"Do not come any closer," he told her. She nodded once and he turned his back on her again.

He took a lighter from his pocket and approached the house again. He stopped where he had finished his line of kerosene so he would not have to enter the house again.

With one flick, a flame sprang from the lighter. Castiel dropped the lighter and its open flame on the kerosene. He did not watch the flames race to the house or how they engulfed the house. He only turned to watch the spectacle at five yards' distance from the picket fence. It was a terrible, magnificent sight to behold, to see the flames consume the house – but he did not feel anything. This meant nothing to him, though it was the start of his new life.

Crowds gathered behind him; they respected the boundaries and stayed with the girl behind the fence. And they were loud; they were shocked, tumultuous and did not shut up. And one voice was louder than the rest: the girl, shouted for her daddy to stop and for her mommy to come out. The mother was in the house.

The man did not care – the girl's mother did not carry the gene, while her daughter did. His actions were justified. The woman needn't be saved, but the girl could grow into something great in the future.

Jimmy Novak would have cared. Jimmy Novak would never even think of setting his house on fire. But Jimmy Novak was gone and Castiel cared only for his newfound family; for the superior kind on this planet; for the angels he called his brothers and sisters.

Two men stood closer than the others and watched the scene from the sidelines. They could not have been more different. The older man, Zachariah, sported wrinkles, gray hair and watched in awe. The other was Michael; a younger, more handsome dark-skinned man who was delighted at the sight. Though they stood near Castiel, neither the people nor Castiel himself noticed the newcomers. Nobody could see them, for they merely visited one of Castiel's earliest memories.

"He actually did it," Zachariah said.

"You should know better than to doubt your recruits, Zachariah," Michael responded and he turned his head to his follower. A curious frown appeared on his face.

"Is this making you anxious?" Michael asked. Zachariah shook his head.

"Not at all!" Zachariah said. "When I tell my recruits to cut ties with their past, they usually burn their own physical possessions. I didn't think Castiel would burn his entire house." _With his former wife inside,_ he thought. Zachariah did not say this out loud – it may give Michael the idea that Zachariah was sympathetic towards the woman, which he wasn't. He just believed it was astonishing Castiel would actually dispose of his former spouse, unlike other recruits.

"How long has he been in the garrison?" Michael wondered, his eyes still on the loyal soldier.

"Approximately one year," Zachariah said truthfully.

"One year," Michael repeated slowly, his mind mulling over the scene. A smile appeared on his face. "I made up my mind. He will be our inside man."

Zachariah's eyes widened and he opened his mouth in a gasp. Castiel indeed was loyal, yes. But could this angel carry out the mission?

"Don't you want anyone else?" Zachariah asked with the utmost respect and deep fear for his superior. "This one's barely developed any skills. He can only heal!"

"We need a young angel. We need a _loyal_ angel." Michael turned his gaze to the burning building. "We need someone who will be strong enough not to break while residing with the resistance. We need him."

Zachariah nodded submissively. "Of course."

The memory had not changed during the interaction – Castiel stared at the building, the girl screamed for attention and the onlookers did not dare to intervene.

"Take us back," Michael said, bored by the sameness of the memory. Zachariah nodded again. The world around them shifted; darkness became brighter and a house on the edge of the city turned into a clean, white environment. The one thing in Michael's office that wasn't white was the oak desk and its matching chair. Two chairs facing the desk were white, and Castiel sat on one of them, unconscious for now. Michael and Zachariah were standing in front of the young angel.

When Michael and Zachariah were back in the real world, Castiel woke and remained seated n the chair, his eyes on his two superiors. Zachariah had folded his arms and stared at the soldier while Michael smiled.

"Congratulations," Michael said, "You are going to infiltrate the resistance."


	2. Leming Street

It was cold for this time of year.

Dean leaned against the wall of a building next to the local bar. If anyone passed by, they would assume he was getting some fresh air – that bar didn't have the best air quality inside. While he silently stood there, he gave off the air of a bored person looking around. Nobody suspected a young man like himself would keep an eye on another house, just down the street.

In that house down the street lived the Milton family. They were well off, all things considered, but they were afraid. Their daughter had recently celebrated her 21st birthday and there were clear indications that angels may be stopping by soon. The girl's uncle carried the gene and converted into an angel; her father carried the same gene, but his had never manifested. The girl's mother had relatives who became angels as well, and both parents were worried their daughter may be taken from them for conversion.

Naturally, they couldn't contact the police. They were too afraid to interfere when angels were involved. The next step, of course, was contacting the resistance, which had people who were brave enough to stand guard and watch out for angels. The resistance accepted the offer.

This all resulted in Dean wishing he hadn't forgotten his warmer coat back in the bunker.

The job couldn't be any easier. Keep your eyes open. Knock on the glass of the bar's window if you see any suspicious behavior or angel activity. Don't let them out of sight. Attack if necessary.

That was the exciting part – but it was always preceded by the boring part where he was left to stand guard for an hour. Being cooped up in the bunker seemed favorable now he was out in the field.

A man, across the street, stood near the Milton house for a little too long. He'd taken something out of his pocket – a wallet, maybe – and looked at it, fiddling with it. Dean did not take his eyes off of this man, his hand sliding to the gun that was hidden by his summer jacket. He didn't take it out – not yet – and his heartbeat rose.

The man put away whatever he'd taken and continued his walk. False alarm. He seemed harmless enough; still, that did not need to mean that angels did not look harmless.

Angels… they were one of a kind. Feared and despised by all, loved only by themselves. They were arrogant and loud and when they didn't fly, they strutted around like they owned the city. The angel Michael did govern the city, but he hadn't been elected fairly and there was no council helping and advising him. Michael had assumed power by killing the previous angel in charge – he thought he was better (they all think they are better) and was threatening enough to keep the humans in line; nobody would dare to come close to him.

This vicious circle would never change. The whole city, including Dean and everyone he loved, involuntarily participated in a giant DNA lottery that had only two possible outcomes: either you are human, or you are an angel. Children and relatives of converted citizens statistically had a bigger chance of converting, too, but conversions could also happen in a family or bloodline that hadn't seen a conversion in a while. But conversions still happened, the angels picked up their new brothers and sisters and continued their cruel traditions.

Couldn't they have children of their own? If they truly believed they were superior, shouldn't they be making babies themselves? Dean believed relying on conversions was barely enough to sustain the population. He recently learned that angels used to do this; their offspring with other angels and even humans, the Nephilim, was more powerful. Michael himself was a Nephilim but, just like every person in power, he was afraid of losing that power. So, when he rose to power, sex was no longer allowed and all Nephilim but Michael were killed. That had to be a real bummer for those angels who did enjoy the pleasures of sex.

If Dean ever converted, he knew he wouldn't like to have that pleasure taken from him.

Luckily, those pricks never interacted much with humans. They only ever bothered those who were about to convert. That did not excuse their get-out-of-jail-free mentality, their many crimes, and violations of human rights. Their complete lack of disrespect for those who would never be angels was exactly the reason why the resistance sprung into existence. The police aren't willing to stand up for human rights and basic needs, like proper infrastructure and adequate healthcare, so the resistance has to do it. Usually, violence was involved one way or another, and it could come from either side.

The jingle of the bell attached to the bar's door pulled Dean out of his thoughts – why did his mind always take him to the angels and their dick-ish behavior? Rufus exited the bar and walked straight towards Dean.

"Finally some company," Dean said, a smile on his face.

"It's just an hour," Rufus said. "You've wasted more by just being in your room."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I was doing work."

Rufus frowned. "In your room?"

Dean shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah. Problems with that?"

"Nah." Rufus shook his head. "So long as you keep being useful, I don't care where you do it, so long as you do it. Now… has there been any movement?"

"Nothing," Dean said with a sigh. This was the second time he'd stood guard outside of the bar today and again, nothing happened. "Maybe seventh hour's the charm."

"Hopefully," Rufus said. "Why don't ya go inside? Bobby's waiting for you."

Dean nodded – this was Rufus making clear he'd focus on the job and didn't need Dean around to distract him. So, Dean turned to the door and walked inside to join Bobby.

At least there was one positive about these kinds of missions – he could grab a beer in a somewhat nice environment. While functional, the bunker they used as their main hide-out was ugly, not very well-isolated and overall not a really pleasurable place to stay at for any prolonged period of time.

The pub was lively; despite the angel's reign of terror, Bobby sat at a table near the door, with one empty chair as well as an empty glass on the table. With a satisfied smile, Dean sat down across Bobby.

"Nothing, huh?" Bobby said. He might have said more, but a waitress came. Dean ordered a beer, the waitress left them again. Dean shook his head when he looked at Bobby again.

"Not even a distraction," Dean said. "I'm starting to think the bastards won't show up today."

Bobby shrugged. "Maybe. Another team will have to return tomorrow then."

Bobby and Rufus would not be able to do this two days in a row – and neither could Dean, for unrelated reasons. Dean could not picture doing this task more than once a month, while Bobby and Rufus were needed elsewhere. They were like the founding members of the resistance; people needed their help, but if they - along with the council – could not run the resistance and push it to efficiency, nothing would get done.

The only reason Bobby and Rufus were even here, was that there weren't enough people available to do this work today. The only reason why Dean was allowed to come along was his general seniority and because Bobby had all but officially adopted Dean and his brother Sam after their father John had dumped them with Bobby and left.

The waitress returned with the beer Dean had ordered. Dean paid for it upfront, in case of an emergency exit, and took one sip.

With a glance at Bobby, he saw the man was not in the mood for a conversation. Neither was Dean – this job had tired all of them. Because Dean and Bobby enjoyed the silence, Dean's mind wandered again. It first wandered to the night John left him and Sam, to a scene four-year-old Dean shouldn't have seen. Bobby and John were talking – John stayed calm, Bobby tried not to shout. Before he left, John had given Bobby the chance to shoot him. Bobby did not do this. Maybe he should have. Since then, they were Sam and Dean Smith, Singer, Wesson, anything but Winchester. Anything but the name they legally held, to throw off the angels who might follow them into adulthood.

Dean thought of the strange tablet they found and what secrets it held. Kevin was translating it; it better have been worth the trouble. It better hold some angel secrets. If that tablet was useless… it couldn't be useless. It would've been a waste of lives and hope and resources.

From that tablet, it was only a small jump to the angels. Was it just him, or did they become more aggressive with each year? Either that or the newest recruits were more eager to throw their lives away from a cause they'd been brainwashed into believing. But with angels like Michael and Zachariah leading the group, of course they'd be bolder and more reckless.

Zachariah – his face was etched into Dean's memory. Exactly three years ago, when Dean was twenty-one, this angel decimated his entire squad. They weren't even there to fight, but to investigate. Strength in numbers did not help – from the ten resistance members, only Dean made it out alive.

Dean wished he could say he fought hard. He did, but he lost hope as one by one, his friends fell. Zachariah, the bastard, spared Dean in a moment of arrogance. Go tell the others what happened. Tell them to stop bothering us. That was the moment Dean became more pro-active in helping Bobby and Rufus with the council, unofficially even joining it.

His mind briefly jumped back to the tablet and the circumstances under which they found it. Even now still, twenty months later, Dean could still picture the scene. Three bodies, two of which with their eyes burnt out, and Sam crouched in a corner with his hands in his armpits, muttering to himself and shivering like crazy.

Dean took another sip from his beer, leaned back in his chair and looked out of the window. He forced his mind to go back to reality – there had to be some way to stop him from thinking about these kinds of things.

Rufus stood in their sight. He had assumed the same position he had assumed before – eyes fixated on the building, hand on his hip near where he carried his gun and not an overall very relaxing stance. He waited, hoping against all odds, that he could just pull his gun, shoot once and kill an angel.

That was the beauty of these angels. Special powers aside, they were still fundamentally human. They ate and breathed like humans, bled and died like humans. Yes, their crazy powers could disarm any attacker and they could heal themselves on the spot if they had to, but they could be killed with about anything.

Rufus knew the dangers well. He'd been resisting for a long time, but they only became organized when he half-dragged Bobby as well as Sam and Dean into the cause. He knew what he was doing. Yet, something did not feel quite right.

"What's he looking at?" Dean wondered out loud.

Bobby glanced at Rufus and shrugged. "Why don't you go out and ask him?"

While the freezing breeze was discouraging, Dean considered it. Something wasn't quite right. Bobby didn't see it – not yet, at least. He should go out and see if anything was wrong or whether Dean was imagining things.

When Dean looked out the window again, Rufus had drawn his gun and sprinted to the house they were asked to watch.

"Son of a bitch." Dean and Bobby immediately stood up and ran after him. Rufus should've warned them before running off. They should've known Rufus was going to act without a friend at his side.

Two people stood at the door of the Milton house – two angels. Rufus shot at the angels and hit the youngest in his shoulder. In retaliation, his partner flew to the rebel and punctured his heart with her angel blade. Rufus fell to the ground and the angel retrieved her special knife. The hurt angel joined her.

Neither Dean nor Bobby could tell whether Rufus truly was dead, or provide some medical care. The angels had spotted them as they ran closer and rightfully perceived them as a threat.

As Dean and Bobby neared, they could make out more facial features. The older angel, a brown-haired female, did not look familiar to them. However, the younger boy next to her was. Dean stopped in his tracks and briefly forgot to take aim.

"Adrian…" The boy couldn't have been any older than Sam when Rufus had found him. He was terrified – he'd accidentally flown to a different part of the city and freaked out. It was the first sign that he could be converted. Rufus had offered to take him back to the bunker, and Adrian agreed. Adrian only wanted to travel when the sun shone, though, so Rufus volunteered to stay at his home. He disappeared the next morning, without any signs of struggles.

That was nine months ago. How Rufus spoke about the boy... Adrian must've left an enormous impact. He became another kid Rufus couldn't save. Another failure. No wonder Rufus sprinted towards Adrian as he did.

"My name is Inias," Adrian said with determination. He glared at the rebels and tightened the grip on his angel blade.

Nine months was an exceptionally short time to be indoctrinated. If Adrian had any doubts, they were not visible. He immediately attacked Dean, while his female superior attacked Bobby.

Dean's fight with Inias/Adrian was short. Dean lost his gun in the fight, but Adrian was not very well-trained as a fighter yet and had lost his blade to Dean. After a short struggle, he stabbed Adrian between his ribs. The boy angel looked down at his chest in bewilderment and horror. He turned to Dean again and forced himself to continue. Dean easily parried a few weak punches before Adrian collapsed, blood oozing out of the wound.

He couldn't heal himself. He was too young. It was always a shame when someone that age did not make it because they had made the wrong decisions. If only he'd come to the bunker – he might have still been alive.

Next to him, Bobby had no trouble holding his own against the other angel. He, too, had managed to take her knife. She was a more proficient fighter, but he had cut her right arm; a long line ran from her upper right arm down to her wrist. Blood dripped off the now useless arm. She might heal it, but it would take time – time she did not have.

She glanced at Adrian's body, decided to live to fight another day and flew away.

They called it 'flying' – Dean would describe it as teleportation, because angels did not really hover into the air and fly away like Superman. But the angel community was really big on thematic relevance, so they called it flying, because angels do not teleport.

Now she was gone, and both Adrian and Rufus were dead.

"Let's go back," Bobby said, looking at Rufus' body one last time. Dean nodded – this fight had attracted an audience of five people. If they stayed too long, the police may come to arrest them for the murder. Or worse: the angels returned to this place to kill Bobby and Dean. Any second, they could come back.

There was no time to lose. They ran to their car – an old impala, Dean's favorite – and they drove back to the bunker. They were relieved not to have encountered a single angel on their way back home.

* * *

Dean's bedroom wasn't impressive. The room only held the bare minimum – two beds, one chair and a small wooden desk against the wall, littered with various items such as, but not limited to, five empty bottles of beer, a necklace, and a box that took up almost all of the space. The room itself was dirty as well; Dean tried to keep it clean, but with a building as old as the bunker was, it was like mopping with the tap open. After the thirteen years he'd spent in here, Dean easily overlooked its flaws.

At least his room had a properly functioning door. Not many other people could say that of their room.

Dean and Bobby had retreated to this room specifically for their privacy. They had left the car in the garage; Dean had threatened some teens that were in the garage not to touch her if they valued their lives. Bobby had to apologize; Dean was weirdly protective over the car and he hadn't recognized their faces. Now they knew not to even come close to the Impala. Maybe, if Rufus hadn't died, Dean would've told them in a slightly nicer tone to stay away from that car.

As soon as Dean had reached the comforts of his room, he leaned against the desk and looked at a patch of mold that had developed on the floor. He only had a couple of moments of silence before Bobby entered, carrying two small glasses and a bottle of liquor. Bobby filled both to the brim. He handed Dean the glass.

"To Rufus," Bobby said, slightly raising his glass. Dean nodded.

"To Rufus."

They emptied their glasses in one go.

Dean expected Bobby to leave; someone had to inform the council one of their own had passed away. Bobby didn't leave right away.

"Dean," he said. "What happened to Rufus ain't your fault." Dean looked at Bobby.

"But if I had been out there for a little longer with him—"

"Neither you nor I could've stopped him."

"—then he wouldn't be dead." Dean placed the glass on the desk with more force than he intended; the glass cracked. Other than angels, Dean couldn't help but think of those he couldn't save when he should have, when he had the chance. Now Rufus was on that list, too. And that sucked.

"We should've killed the other one, too," Dean said, nodding to himself.

"That might've made them angrier," Bobby pointed out – he, too, wished he'd killed the female.

"It might've alerted Zachariah," Dean continued. "Of course that coward's involved in recruitments. Maybe it would've encouraged him to show his face again. The next time he shows himself… I swear, I'm gonna kill him, even if I have to track him down myself."

"That's reckless," Bobby said with a cautionary tone. "I don't think Crowley would like that."

"I don't care what Crowley thinks!" Dean exclaimed, swinging his arms. "If this happens, you tell 'em I'm working on my own."

"You might not want to go in alone. Think about it. We'll figure out something that doesn't make us lose our only sponsor." And if they didn't, at least Dean may not calm down.

"Still, Zachariah's got to go." Dean shook his head. "That angel is the cause of every problem we have ever had. And he's not even showing up regularly anymore!"

Whether or not Zachariah indeed was the cause of every problem the resistance ever faced, Dean liked to make the connection. Nine people were killed while Dean lived – that's on Zachariah. Charlie almost died – that could've been Zachariah ordering other angels to do it for him. There was no link at all between Sam's problem and Zachariah being the cause, but Dean sure liked to think there was.

Then there were many other fights, small or big, that he supposedly had a hand in. Most of these fights were between small groups of rebels and angels. They always ended in the rebels dying – so many lives were lost fighting for a better regime, for representation and rights. Sam was fighting, too. Sam was one of the lucky ones. He made it out alive, but as what cost?

"Why should Zach and those douches even rule?" Dean continued, raising his voice again. "We're in the freaking majority. If anyone should govern this city, it should be us! The people!"

"I agree," Bobby said, and this agreement silenced Dean again. For a few moments, they looked at one another. The eye contact calmed Dean down.

"I don't know what you'll do," Bobby eventually said, "but there's still work to be done and I need to tell the council what happened." They needed to know Rufus was never coming back anymore.

"You go ahead, I'm staying here." Dean nodded once at Bobby. "See you around."

"See you around." Bobby shot one last worried glance at Dean and he left the room. Dean was alone again.

Sometimes the loneliness comforted him. Sometimes it hurt too much. Dean glanced at the second bed, the empty bed – the bed that always found a way to remind him of both the good and the bad. It reminded him of Sam and his blissful oblivion. Sam was aware of the general happenings, but he had no idea how hard it had become to survive on a week-to-week, a day-to-day basis. He didn't know just how many members they lost and how many youngsters ripe for conversion they hadn't saved. He didn't know Crowley almost pulled support twice for reasons he did not disclose.

It was better that way. Sam was better off that way – he wouldn't carry all the worries and stress Dean felt on an hourly basis. Sam was already fighting hard, he didn't need all this added stress.

Sometimes Dean wished he could leave the bunker and see Sam again, like normal people. But that could compromise Sam's location – Dean wouldn't allow the angels to use this hypothetical opportunity to target Sam.

No. He pushed those scenarios out of his head. If he continued like that, his mind would end up unhelpfully criticizing angels again, and he didn't want that to happen. He needed to do something.

Dean grabbed the chair and dragged it to the loaded desk. He sat down and pulled the closed box closer to him. He opened it and was greeted by the recording device he'd learned to operate over the past twenty months. It was old and only barely worked, but 'only barely' was good enough. Dean pressed the loose play/stop button and took a deep breath.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean paused briefly to collect his thoughts and to have the right words ready.

"So… Rufus is dead," Dean continued. The final recorded message was over four minutes long. Other than breaking the news of Rufus, he supplied Sam with smaller details the angels couldn't or wouldn't pay attention to. Garth is cleaning up his desk (because he was preparing to have a normal, non-rebel life), Kevin barely made progress (because this strange language and alphabet system was not helpful to decipher the tablet's message) and Marv still wanted to pursue his silly writing career (which was wrong and made him a liability). The inflection of Dean's tone made clear exactly what he was thinking, and Sam knew these people well enough to know what Dean meant.

Dean pressed the play/stop button again to stop the recording. If anything else came up during the week, Dean could simply add this later on. The cassette with the messages normally would only reach Sam twice a month.

Dean closed the box, not feeling particularly better, but calm.


	3. Hostages

The angels prepared Castiel for the job. They gave him a crash-course on possible useful fighting techniques. They taught him how not to fall for the resistance's mind control tricks. They taught him the rules he had to follow at all times: don't share the secrets, learn theirs; don't get caught; keep in touch. It all came down to loyalty and obedience when his words and actions would have to show the opposite.

After a month of rigorous training, they deemed Castiel ready for the job. They directed him to go to a specific address downtown. He did not know what was awaiting him, except that this would be the location of his official 'fall'.

The house was located in a nice part of the city, with a bar on the same street. The family that lived here had to be well off. Not many other places looked this nice. He walked down the street and entered the house on foot as well.

That was one advantage – he was too young still to have developed the ability to fly. If someone saw him enter, they would not suspect his true nature. With that small advantage, today came the utter embarrassment of being the only angel involved in this mission not to be able to fly. Even though Castiel could heal himself and others, he would not consider himself a true angel until he could fly. Hopefully, this ability developed soon.

The family was currently in the kitchen, guarded by five angels. This family consisted of three people: the father, the mother and their twenty-something daughter. The girl had fiery red hair that contradicted the terrified look in her eyes. Though she was weak, frail, bound, gagged, he felt a connection between them – a rope that tied him to her pure yet weak white aura. It was undeniable: the girl was one of them, ready for conversion.

"Castiel." Zachariah pulled Castiel out of his thoughts and called him aside. Castiel glanced at the young lady and her guards one last time before he followed Zachariah out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

"Please focus," Zachariah said in an irritated tone. "She won't be the last pre-conversion angel you'll meet."

"Of course," Castiel said. The pull and subsequent was a constant at angel headquarters and thus could easily be ignored. But when meeting young or new angels or any angel in public when there aren't as many around, this pull became more noticeable. Perhaps one day, he'd learn how to ignore it and focus on the task at hand.

"I hope you will," Zachariah said, a cold look on Castiel. "Today is the first day of your mission. We wouldn't want that to fail."

"No, sir," Castiel responded – his failure would have a catastrophic effect on further attempts to infiltrate the resistance. "What will I do?"

Zachariah looked at the closed kitchen door. "You will go to the kitchen again. Three young fallen angels are in there, as well as two of our loyalists. They will make sure the fallen won't run – they can't fly yet and have no idea what will happen. Neither does the family. As for the resistance, some of its members are approaching as we speak."

Castiel nodded. It would be tricky, but he was adamant to successfully win the resistance's trust. There were just some details that needed to be cleared up.

"Do you want me to kill the fallen?" he asked.

"Of course," Zachariah said. "The two loyalists have been told to fly away when you enter. The fallen won't have that option. They should be easy to recognize either way, with the scared looks on their faces."

Castiel nodded in understanding. Still, it was too bad those three angels had decided to keep in touch with their human side during the conversion process. Or maybe the resistance had harassed them enough not to fully commit to their new status. It was unusual to find three of them around the same time, but times were changing. This had to be the resistance's work. They refused to be something greater and they would pay the price.

Castiel wanted to ask him when he should start when Zachariah frowned, seemingly at nothing. He must be receiving a message through their 'angel radio', the angel-based telepathy. Perhaps telepathy was too long a word, and 'radio' sounded much better. Either way, Castiel waited for Zachariah to address him again.

"The resistance members are in the street," he told Castiel. So it had begun. "Kill the fallen, rescue the family. Make sure to go with them. Once you're in, act wisely."

No words on what he should do if he failed. It made sense; failure was not an option.

"I will," Castiel responded. He was confident in his ability to break the resistance from the inside out. It would take time, though. Winning their trust would be difficult, but setting them up against one another would only be easier. Whether his head would end on the chopping block did not matter – as long as the first cracks were made, as long as relationships were strained and trust fractured, he was willing to make this sacrifice.

"Good luck, soldier," Zachariah said almost emotionlessly and he flew away. Castiel was left in the hallway.

He turned to the kitchen door, ready for his mission. It would begin with righteous murder. He had not killed an angel before, so that bit was still exciting, too.

No. They had fallen; they chose to turn their backs on their birthright. They were no angels. They deserved this for their treason. There was only one way for an angel to be human again, and that was in death.

Castiel opened the door and marched inside the kitchen with his blade. The angels and humans in the room noticed his concentrated, intense look. They knew something was going to happen.

As if on cue, the two loyalist angels flew away and left the fallen and the family. Castiel did not hesitate and targeted the closest fallen angel. Castiel stabbed him in the eye – he had aimed for the chest, but the scared boy tripped and Castiel could not correct the trajectory of his blade. The blow was still effective; Castiel went deep enough to do enough brain damage for this boy not to recover from his wounds.

The redheaded daughter's gagged yells were drowned out by the panic of the other two angels. It helped Castiel's cause – the family (hopefully) believed Castiel was a powerful angel who had fallen and whose wrath towards the angels was terrible. They hopefully believed he was on their side, killing their captors and jailors.

When Castiel was done with the murders, he would explain his actions to them so that they could later vouch for him when the resistance finally came. It would make his integration in the resistance much easier.

Before the boy's body hit the ground, Castiel retrieved his blade and turned his attention to the fallen girl angel. She stared at him in shock and could not move. Castiel, who was only a couple of yards away, immediately went to her and slit her throat. She did not even defend herself; she just died without putting up a fight.

The last fallen angel was a twenty-five-year-old man, and as such the oldest of the fallen angels. He was the smartest - as soon as Castiel had moved away from the door, blocking his way out, he ran.

Castiel could not let that angel live. The resistance was on the street. What if he told them the truth before Castiel could present his fabricated story? He could not let that angel ruin his mission.

But the family would be alone.

"I'll be with you in a second," he told the family before following the fallen angel. At least this might make them think he was on their side and established himself as someone ready to kill any angel, even those that fled. If they asked, he could always make something up about that fallen angel.

Castiel came outside – the angel he chased had tripped and must have landed in a bad way, considering he was still scrambling to get back up. Castiel marched towards him and grabbed the back of his vest. He dragged the fallen angel back to the sidewalk, not giving him any opportunity to get away again. Castiel violently pushed him into the wall.

The fallen angel was a mess. He was bruised and shook his head, a desperate expression on his face. "Don't," he begged between sobs. "Please don't."

Castiel looked at him with disgust. This sorry excuse for an angel did not even deserve death, but Castiel had a mission to fulfill.

He pushed the angel blade into his victim's heart. His cries were loud but short. Castiel pulled his blade out of the body that slumped to the ground and reclined against the wall, a red stream dripping out of the wound.

Castiel took some steps backward and watched the corpse indifferently. He seemed to be peaceful. Asleep. Dead. As he should be. 

Now Castiel just needed to free the family that waited inside. Hopefully, the resistance would be pleasantly surprised. They might accept him. An angel had sided with the resistance before; it was rare, but possible.

Castiel turned to return to the house but stopped. Ten people in mismatched uniforms and other protective armor aimed their guns at him; they had witnessed his murder. They did not act yet – they might be confused about his action or waited for his next move.

This was not how he had wanted to introduce himself to the resistance. yet, he had to make the best of the situation. The game had begun.

Castiel slowly bent over while the guns' barrels followed him. He carefully placed his angel blade on the ground and gave it a little push. It rolled away from him, out of reach. Then, he looked directly at the ten resistance members.

They did not react immediately. Without moving even an inch towards them, Castiel figured he'd have to give them something more than his weapon.

"The family's in the kitchen." He pointed loosely in the direction of the house. "They could use your help. There are no angels anymore, I killed them."

The announcement of his crime might have finally made the resistance move. A twenty-five-year-old or something in the back shouted instructions. Six of the ten members walked into the house. The young commander and the three other members stayed with the angel who confessed to killing angels.

"On the ground!" The commander shouted. Castiel fought against the urge to glare and though he hated being commanded by a human, he sat on his knees and placed his hands on his head.

The commander approached Castiel with his gun aimed at the angel. His three subordinates protested this – they urged him to be careful, told him angels could not be trusted and even suggested killing Castiel, to avoid any trouble later on.

If he was not already playing his part, Castiel would have stood up and killed them for this threat. Not just for their threat, but also their unrespectful tone. He was still an angel that deserved respect for his amazing powers – which he still had to develop for the most part, but that did not make him less of an angel.

Castiel made eye contact with the commander. He glared at the angel with pure hatred and if Castiel wasn't trying to appear more innocent, this would certainly shine through in his own eyes. This hatred also shone in how close the gun's barrel was close to Castiel's torso.

At long last, one of the six resistance members that was sent into the house stepped outside.

"They're safe," the woman said. "All three are unharmed. There are also two corpses."

The commander tilted his head and gave the angel a questioning look. His confusion was more than normal; angels did not die any differently than humans. There was no magic glow, no angel wing imprints, no burnt-out eyes when an angel died. Only in death were humans and angels equal.

"They are angels," Castiel said. "They guarded the family, wanted to take the daughter with them. She's carrying the gene and up for conversion."

That was the pull that Castiel felt – the daughter carried the right genetic material to become an angel. This development could happen anywhere between ages 20 and 30, and the daughter had recently hit the jackpot.

The commander glanced at the female soldier. She returned to her five friends and the family inside to communicate this information with them and possibly to ask the family whether Castiel was telling the truth. Castiel hoped the family would be able to tell the resistance he had helped keep them out of angel hands. But nobody came out of the house to confirm or deny his points.

Castiel looked at the commander. He could read nothing on the young man's face. Maybe the man was deciding to kill him on the spot. Maybe not. Castiel did not ask – he remained quiet and hoped the commander would make the right decision.

Castiel would not know whether to call the commander's decision the right one. He did turn his gun around and knocked out Castiel with the heft.


	4. Bunker

The ride to the bunker was stressful. Dean was cooped up with the angel and six of the soldiers he had brought along to this mission in one of the two vans. The three other soldiers were sitting with the Milton family in the other van. Dean would've been more relaxed if he was sitting in the other van, too, but he felt responsible to keep an eye on the angel.

Dean was confused when the angel dropped his weapon out of free will. He had never seen an angel surrender himself so calmly before. There had to be an ulterior motive. He must be up to something. Maybe he wanted to come close to them. Maybe he wanted to do so to kill them. If there was any other reason, it did not cross his mind. Anything was possible – who knows what that angel was up to.

On the other hand, this angel had killed a brother. Angels did not usually kill their siblings, not even when one of them had fallen. The fallen would not dare to kill them out of fear of revenge, while angels would rather capture their fallen comrades to re-educate them again.

This angel killed one of his kind. It had intrigued Dean so much, he took the biggest possible risk. Now the angel was in the van, his hands cuffed on his back and a sack pulled over his head. He sat between Dean and another soldier and every one of the soldiers aimed their guns at him, in case he tried something funny.

But he didn't move. He sat so still, some believed he had fallen asleep. In reality, their angel was a model prisoner and followed their instructions without hesitation. He even did not dare to move his little finger.

At long last, they reached their bunker. It was at the edge of the city, an almost completely buried base that once must have been used for something other than rebellious activities. The vans drove to the side of the bunker, to the garage on the highest level. They had to wait for the gates to be manually opened, a loud grinding noise accompanying this movement.

The vans rode into the relatively large garage and parked to the near end, close to the door. Only when the vans stopped for a second time did the van opened its doors. The soldiers pulled the angel out of the van and dragged him to the exit.

"Put him in a cell," Dean said as he got out. He then turned to the Milton family that stepped out of the other van. The daughter, Anna, watched how the soldiers guided the angel to the cell and she frowned.

"He didn't do anything wrong," she said before Dean could ask her or her parents if they needed anything. "He helped us."

Dean shook his head. True, he helped out – but there had to be an ulterior motive. He couldn't understand why they did not see it.

"He's a damn angel," he said. "We don't know what's going on inside those sick brains." The angel killing his friend was the first link in a long chain of events that he had started to further his own goals, either for good or for worse. His brain had been perverted by the brainwashing, unlike Anna's. She carried the gene and was ready for conversion and by the defeated look in her eyes, Dean knew she counted herself as an angel already and that he'd called her sick.

"I didn't mean you," Dean said, trying not to stumble over his words. "I mean, you're not quite, er…" He did not find the right words. He should really be more careful about what he blurted out around sensitive people like her.

"I know," she said in a flat voice. She looked right at him, tears brimming in her eyes. She took a deep breath. "Maybe I should go."

Her mother pulled her daughter into a close hug, to show she was loved. Her father briefly glared at Dean for the comment that upset Anna.

"You don't mean that," her mother said, shaking her head, placing a hand on Anna's cheek when they broke the hug.

"I'm carrying the gene," Anna said, her voice breaking. "I'm going to be an angel. I don't want to cause any trouble." She looked at Dean again. She truly did not want to intentionally hurt anyone in the building.

"They'll need to brainwash you first to make you an angel," Dean said. "They don't know we're here. And if they do, they'll need to get through us first before they'll get to you. You have nothing to fear and you're free to stay however long you'd like." This statement reassured Anna and her parents. They were also more than grateful they were allowed to stay and could leave whenever they wanted, though they would not leave for a long while. They smiled – there were small smiles, but smiles nonetheless. And Dean was glad.

Leyla, one of the soldiers Dean had worked together with for the last three months, entered the garage on her guarding route. Dean noticed her and motioned her to come closer to them. Leyla approached Dean and the family he was standing with.

"This is Leyla," Dean introduced her to the Miltons. "She will bring you to your room and will answer any questions you may have. Is that alright?"

Leyla smiled at them to make them feel more at ease. This worked and they agreed to Leyla accompanying them. Before they left, however, the father turned to Dean one last time.

"Thank you," he said. Dean nodded once and then they were gone, guided out of the garage and deeper into the bunker, to the room they would call home until the resistance found a safe space for them to live far away from their old home. They would never be able to go back there – but they might be safer in a different part of town with fake names.

Dean walked to the exit himself after inspecting whether someone has damaged his Impala in any way. His Impala was fine and the Miltons were safe, but they still had an angel to deal with. Speaking to Garth about interviewing the angel on his intentions moved to the top of the to-do-list.

Garth was probably in the situation room, so that was where Dean was headed. But before Dean could even walk down one hallway, Bobby came around the corner and walked towards him.

Crap. Bobby. Dean had not yet told him about his decision to bring in the angel. He had told someone in the situation room he was bringing a dangerous special guest – whoever had taken that call had probably told Bobby.

"The trench coat was the special guest, right?" Bobby asked him. He shot Dean a quizzical look, rightfully assuming that Dean had not told him everything yet. Dean nodded as a response.

"Yeah, it was," Dean said, and he sighed. Bobby wasn't going to like this. "He's an angel that—"

"Are you out of your damn mind?" Bobby exclaimed. He continued in a hushed tone. "Why would you bring an angel in here?"

"Angel that killed _three_ other angels," Dean finished his sentence. "Without him, we would've lost the Milton family. They're safe now." It was hard to admit the angel helped them get the family out of the situation, that his actions kept the family together and alive.

Bobby raised his eyebrow in surprise. "That's new." He folded his arms and kept his gaze on Dean still. "Why did you bring him here?"

"He surrendered to us. He even dropped this." Dean fished out the angel blade from his pocket and twirled it once. He took the angel blade from the angel that had wielded it. he couldn't deny it felt good, holding this knife for a prolonged amount of time. No angel would willingly give up their weapon. "Something's up with him. I'm going to find out what that is."

Bobby shook his head disappointedly.

"That can't be the best move you've made." Dean shrugged in response. While that was true, only time would tell whether his latest idea was the worst so far. When the angel surrendered, he couldn't not make that decision.

"Who knows. He might want to give up some information," Dean said. "At the very least, he could help us out. So far, it doesn't look like he has any bad intentions."

"It never looks like that," Bobby said. Too many angels are willing to lie to get what they wanted. "What's stopping this angel from flying away from here and bringing an army to our door?"

"He's not gonna escape, Bobby," Dean said. "Yes, he's strong and fast. But he surrendered without a second thought. He was silent all the way here and didn't move. He didn't fly away. That's a choice. Or he's still young according to angel standards."

Flying was, after all, one of the first attributes an angel develops as they grow older. It was always possible this angel refused to fly to give the impression of being young. This was what Dean would assume until it was proven otherwise.

"If he doesn't have bad intentions, he should willingly give up the information." But if he did, it would shine through and the resistance would find out. Bobby shook his head again.

"You're better off not trusting him," he said.

Dean shot Bobby an annoyed look. "I know what I'm doing. Whatever he says, I'll probably let Charlie or someone else double-check it. At least, until he's proven that he can be trusted." If the angel was willing to work with them and cooperated well, Dean would be willing to trust him more. But for now, there was no trust.

Bobby gave him a blank stare and Dean returned the favor. Dean knew he wouldn't be getting any support form the man who raised him.

"I don't agree with this," Bobby said.

Dean shrugged. "We can at least try getting something out of him. If he turns out to be brainwashed still—" Dean paused. He twirled the angel blade again. "We can always send him to his brothers and sisters in heaven."

This did not convince Bobby to give his blessing; Dean wouldn't need it, though it would've been nice to have. If Rufus were still alive and Dean hadn't taken his place in the council, he would've had to ask permission. He wouldn't have gotten it.

"We gotta have a little faith," Dean then said. He spoke more to himself than to Bobby. "Maybe this one provides the crucial information we need."

"In this line of work, faith doesn't do much," Bobby responded in a monotone.

"True," Dean said. "Anyway, I'm off to the situation room. "I'll see you around, Bobby."

And Dean walked away from Bobby, who disappeared out of sight when Dean turned around the corner. Dean shook his head – oh, the stubbornness – and focused on his thoughts while he walked to the situation room.

The bunker was large and had many corridors leading anywhere and nowhere. This base had been abandoned many years before the resistance moved in. some of the hallways had collapsed, most doors had been eaten away – if there were doors. Dean could take many different routes from the garage to the situation room. Today, he opted for the shortest routes. He would have to climb a staircase that was not in the best shape, but each time he passed it, he'd remember they needed to be fixed – now, if he'd only remember to tell someone to fix them or to fix them himself.

Right as Dean reached the moldy staircase, someone in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Under the staircase, in a dark corner, sat a plump small man typing away on a typewriter with the utmost concentration. He just put a piece of paper on the pile of papers next to him.

Dean rolled his eyes. Marv… what to do with Marv? Dean cleared his throat and Marv looked up. His face paled immediately. He stepped away from the typewriter, with a guilty look on his face – he was busted and he knew it. He placed his foot on some of the papers and pushed them further away from Dean, very slowly, hoping Dean wouldn't notice. Dean noticed.

"Marv," Dean asked the plump man with the curly hair. "What are you doing?"

"You know, the usual," Marv said. "Writing down the stock." He picked up a pen and a piece of paper with some smudged ink on it. From Dean's position, the writing on the paper was not handwritten, but rather pressed on it by the typewriter.

"Writing down the stock?" Dean repeated, raising his eyebrows and folding his arms.

"Yes!" Marv defended himself.

"You sure?"

"Yeah!"

Silence briefly fell, during which Marv nervously glanced away while Dean kept his eyes on Marv. Dean shook his head – the guy meant well, but Marv's hobbies might just lead to the death of everyone in the bunker.

"I don't know what you want me to believe," Dean said, "but people aren't usually smiling when they're 'writing down the stock'." Both Dean and Marv looked at the typewriter, the latest page still stuck in there. Dean stepped towards it and yanked it out of the typewriter, luckily not tearing the page.

"If you're going to continue this crap, you might as well become better at hiding it." Dean also picked up the typed-out pages and collected them into a neat pile. Even if Marv didn't like this action, he wouldn't dare to stop Dean.

"It's not crap," Marv fiercely defended his work. Dean looked up from the papers.

"Then what is it?" Dean asked.

"You're holding history in your hands!" Marv pointed to the pages and spoke with an enthusiastic tone. "How lucky will the next generations be when they have this first-hand account of the daily life in this bunker! They won't have to speculate when which decision has been made within these walls, they'll know."

Dean shook his head once. He glanced at the pages – they described how Dean took Rufus' place in the council – and back at Marv.

"Look, I mean no disrespect," he said, "but I don't care what you do. I don't care if you're writing fiction. Hell, I don't care if you wanted to juggle chainsaws!" With his free hand he put his finger on the pile he held in the other hand. "But if these pages fall into the wrong hands, we're done for. You're endangering all of us by writing it down."

Marv sighed in despair and looked longingly at his pages. He wanted them back – but they no doubt contained sensitive information, so the best way to make sure they wouldn't fall into angel hands, was to burn them.

"I can't help it!" Marv said in a raised voice. "I _need_ to write it down. It's an urge I can't control!

"Maybe you should try to control it. Why don't you…" Dean paused. What could Marv do that would help out the resistance from inside the bunker? Dean eventually shrugged. "I don't know, why don't you go to the kitchen and help out a bit?"

Marv frowned. "But I can't cook."

"They'll teach you," Dean answered. Marv shook his head – he didn't want to cook at all. He wanted to write! He needed to. It was the only thing he could ever be good at.

"At least try it out before ruling it out, okay?" Dean continued. "Who knows, maybe that's your calling."

"But—"

"Your next calling. C'mon." Dean motioned for Marv to walk into the hallway, to the kitchen, to go and do something truly productive for once. "Off you go."

Reluctantly, Marv passed Dean and he walked down the hallway. He turned around and raised a semi-angry finger at him.

"Don't destroy the typewriter," he said.

"I have better things to do," Dean responded. Marv had no idea whether this comment was meant to calm him down, but Marv squinted at Dean suspiciously. He did not believe Dean was going to leave the typewriter under the old staircase.

Dean did not destroy the typewriter, as Marv accused him of wanting to do. He left it right where Marv had placed it and continued on his way to the situation room, carrying the pile of papers with him.

In less than five minutes – after carefully climbing those stairs – he was in the situation room. It was a spacious room that bordered what once had been its library, but now was an extension of this room. In the middle stood a large table with a map of the city permanently rolled out on it, pins marking possible angel targets and marker encircling the angel hideouts. There were desks with monitors and computers to the side and one big screen to the wall. Its doors were reinforced and it was big enough to hold more than three hundred people in case of an emergency.

Currently, only ten people or so were in the situation room, all doing their own work that ranged from reviewing scouting rapports and planning out various missions. One of those people, who was tasked with finding out who carried the gene, was Garth Fitzgerald. This was one of the few happy people in the resistance. His never-ending optimism used to rub Dean the wrong way, but he had grown fond of Garth regardless.

His optimism among the negativity of the resistance would be missed, but if anyone deserved to leave the resistance and have a normal life, it was Garth. He deserved to be with his wife and daughter.

"Hi," Dean said, placing a hand on Garth's shoulder. He glanced at the computer screen briefly. "How're you doing?"

Garth turned his head and smiled at him. "I'm doing fine."

"Good to hear," Dean responded, a small smile on his face now, too. It was nice someone in this shitty world was feeling good.

"So…" Dean continued. "I don't know if you've heard, but we've got a situation."

Garth nodded. The smile was traded for a serious expression. "The angel."

Yes," Dean said before frowning at Garth. "How do you know about that?" He had only told them a special guest was coming; Garth should not have known at this point they had an angel.

"Bobby told me," Garth said. "Through the walkie-talkie. He figured you'd come to me."

_Well, he's not wrong._ At least Dean would now not lose time explaining his reasons for bringing their prisoner and might make the question a bit easier to ask.

"Anyway, do you want to interview him?" It was a standard interview that would determine whether they would be accepted into the resistance. It would need to be adapted for their angel, but the angel would be subjected to these questions before they would consider taking him out of his cell.

Garth did not initially respond. This prompted Dean to continue speaking.

"You can refuse," he said. "I know exposing yourself to him might endanger you. I could—"

"Dean," Garth interrupted him, "I'm still here, aren't I? I'll interview the angel."

Dean smiled again; a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. "Thanks, man."

Garth shrugged. "Someone's gotta do it, so it might as well be me."

"There will be guards outside. I'll be watching the interview from down here. He's a young angel, so he shouldn't be able to hurt you with any abilities he does have. If you even so much feel something's going wrong, just say it and the guards will come in."

"I know," Garth said after Dean was done talking. He stood up from his chair. "You don't have to be overprotective."

Dean shook his head once. "I'm not—" When he looked at Garth, though, he knew he wasn't kidding anyone. Garth was just fragile and he kind of reminded Dean of Sam. With his heightened sense of responsibility, especially since he was now one of the councilmembers, he did not want to lose anyone, especially not someone like Garth. "Okay, maybe a little bit. Be safe in there."

Garth nodded. "Of course. Let me just get the questionnaire."

Garth walked to the exit of the situation room. Dean walked to the big table and sat down on a chair. He turned to the monitor on the wall, its sole purpose being the display of any footage, security or otherwise, they possessed.

The minutes dragged by slowly; Dean wondered when Garth would enter the room. So he stared at the live footage of the angel, sitting motionlessly on the bed. His calmness was terrifying – he was locked up, but it seemed he was completely comfortable. As if he was in control.

Dean finally realized the full extent of his decisions.

They had an angel in the bunker.

Dean placed a hand on his face. What did he get himself into?


	5. Interview

The room was small and bare; only a bed, a meager mattress and a bucket that substituted a functioning toilet (did they even have properly functioning toilets?). The walls were cracked and not even sloppy white paint could conceal it. The door looked fragile and parts of the ceiling could drop any minute. The one anomaly was the camera in the left corner of the cell. They were watching him – of course they were.

As not to provoke them, Castiel remained seated on the bed, his hands cuffed and his gaze on this one brick in the wall. He did not move even one muscle. And he thought.

Things had not gone according to plan, but he was in the resistance's headquarters now. Where exactly in the city it was located, he would find out later. They brought him in cuffed and with a bag over his head – they did not trust him yet. They would, eventually. He would make them. But trust went both ways; if they were to trust him, he would also have to trust them to a certain extent. That trust would have to be earned.

What would they do to test his trustworthiness and loyalty? And what could he do to give them what they wanted without committing to it? They'd want to know about his abilities; if they knew he could heal, he would need to demonstrate. They may ask him to fight; he would need to keep his thoughts to himself. he would not have many freedoms; he needed to take every opportunity to leave these four walls and 'prove himself'.

Then there was also the possibility they saw through his ruse. He did not like to think about it.

The door opened; Castiel was taken out of his thoughts. A scrawny young man with a clipboard entered the cell.

"Hi," he said when the door closed behind him. "I'm Garth. You must be the angel."

"That's correct," Castiel responded and he tilted his head slightly – why was Garth smiling? It was small, but it was there. He was the first resistance member Castiel saw smiling. Was he being polite, or was there another reason?

He might just be polite. He stood in the corner next to the door and did not approach Castiel any further. It was an easy escape route, in case Castiel stepped out of line. Garth did not wear any visible protection; there had to be guards outside his room now. They probably would not hesitate to shoot.

"I have a couple of questions for you," Garth said. "Could you answer them as accurately as possible?"

"Of course." Castiel nodded once.

"Great." Garth took a pen from his pocket and clicked once. "Let's start at the beginning. What is your name?"

"Castiel."

The pen flew across the paper; Garth barely looked at the page.

"And before you were converted?"

Castiel shifted uncomfortably. He considered it to be a highly inappropriate question and would rather not answer. But the game had begun; he needed to cooperate.

"I don't remember." He did not want to remember, either.

Garth drew a small line on the paper. "Do you have any family left from before your conversion?"

"I don't remember." Even if he did, they did not matter anymore. The girl was too young for conversion still, and the woman was dead.

"That's okay," Garth said with compassions – Castiel detected a hint of pity in his voice. What reason would a human have to pity an angel? Usually, this worked the other way around.

Castiel was not allowed a minute or more to reflect on these questions; Garth was ready to ask the next question from his list.

"For how long have you been an angel?"

Castiel shrugged. He did not keep count, but he could estimate. "A year or so."

"One year…" Garth's eyes widened as he wrote it down. "That's not a long time. You don't have many abilities, then?"

Castiel could not answer without thinking the answer three times over. The less they knew, the better – the more honest he was, the easier they would trust him. There was only one, fine line, and it wasn't easy to keep balance.

"Not really," Castiel answered. Garth watched him expectantly, waiting for the angel to reveal which attributes he did possess. But Castiel did not speak.

"Which abilities do you have?"

"Strength, stamina," Castiel answered – the two each one had from the start –, "underdeveloped healing." Now, if they commanded him to heal, he could only take away the visible symptoms and if they complained, he could claim he tried his hardest. He could at least keep control over this.

Garth wrote it all down and frowned at Castiel when he stopped speaking.

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing else."

Garth sighed and reviewed the information he'd jotted down. He shook his head.

"That isn't much." He spoke more to himself than to the angel. "But you're young, so you might develop the other abilities soon." When that happened, Castiel would make sure the resistance would not know about it. For all he cared, they would regard him as a late bloomer.

Garth looked at Castiel again, and Castiel could not read him. The small smile had disappeared into a neutral face. His further intentions were unclear and his goals and personality a mystery.

"Ready for the big question?" Garth asked him. This announcement made Castiel believe something big was about to be asked – something he prepared an answer for.

"Why did you fall?"

Under the right circumstances, anyone could fall easy. One moment of doubt was enough to lose touch with your new family and to fall right back to the human's perspective. Castiel did not doubt in the resistance, there would be many chances for him to fall. He was certain he would not fall – his faith and strong and they just needed to hear what they wanted to hear.

"I saw through the brainwashing." Somehow, it was hard to refer to the education process as "brainwashing". Castiel was glad to have spoken the words.

Garth frowned. "It didn't take a hold of you?"

In Garth's experience, the brainwashing techniques the angels used to create more angels was extremely effective. The people they lost to the angels could not be convinced to stop believing what they had been programmed to believe. The ones the resistance could save had developed their abilities and stayed out of angel hands, escaping the brainwashing. The story Castiel presented, was highly unlikely.

"It did," Castiel said. "What I saw and experienced did not correspond to what they told me what was going on. I cannot kill a family in cold blood to recruit a new sister and convince myself this was the right option. So I killed the angels instead."

If Garth had any questions, he did not ask them right away. He could always ask it later.

"And then you surrendered to us," Garth continued. Castiel nodded.

"I still feel like an angel – I killed my brothers and sister. I did not mean them any harm, but they gave me no choice. I surrendered in the hopes of being to a safe space."

"You wanted to come here?"

Castiel hesitated. "That was not the initial plan." He spoke conform to the reality more than answer the question.

"Then what was?"

"I wanted to leave the city," Castiel said. "I thought I'd be safe once I was outside of their influence. It wouldn't have been easy to flee because I can't fly yet—"

"No wings?" Garth interrupted.

"No wings," Castiel repeated. He nodded once. "I saw the soldiers. I figured you could use an ally who knows what's going on in there."

"And that would be you?" Garth asked.

"If you want my help," Castiel answered cautiously. "If you don't, you can drop me off wherever and I will leave you."

It was a risky move and as soon as he made the gamble, he regretted phrasing it like that and even saying it out loud.

"Is that a promise?" Garth asked him.

"I do not want to bother you if you don't want me," Castiel said. He would have to bother them in the long run if they dropped him off somewhere; he really hoped this would not happen. He could not fail.

"Alright then," Garth said. He noted down the last answers and clicked the pen. He shot Castiel a modest smile. "Thank you for your cooperation."

He opened the door and almost walked through it. he turned to Castiel one last time before leaving.

"It's not up to me whether you're staying or not – the council will need to review your answers. Until then, you'll have to stay here."

Castiel nodded. "I can wait."

"Good luck," Garth said. Then he was gone and Castiel was all alone again. When the door was locked again, Castiel stood up to stretch his legs and walk around in the small cell for a while.

His mind was on the council. He simulated a group of ten people, all faceless names he had heard floating around, and simulated their debates. This ran in his favor; the reality would be differently. They might kill him; they also could drop him off somewhere. Their decision could change his life and the course of his plans.

His fate was in their hands. He did not like it at all.

* * *

Castiel would guess two hours had passed before the door was unlocked again. One of his guards had opened it to toss him a sandwich. The bread was stale and there was one meager slice of cheese. It tasted good enough; he devoured it within ten minutes to placate his growling stomach.

After this, he still had to wait for at least one hour and a half. Right as he was about to lay down, the door was unlocked. The man who had spared his life and decided to bring him here stood in the doorway – Castiel recognized the face.

Castiel got a good look at him. The man had traded the soldier gear with flannel and a small handgun bulging out of the back pocket of his jeans. He tried to present himself as neutral, but his eyes betrayed the distrust and animosity.

"Congratulations, we won't kill you," the man said. While it was a relief, it could still mean he would be ejected. He could still be thrown into the van and dropped off at the edge of the city. but then why did this guy approach him dressed like that, seemingly without any protective gear?

"We're not throwing you out, either. But that doesn't mean you're off the bat yet." A strict look appeared on his face. "We'll keep an eye on you. If you so much as cross a line, we'll kill you. You do as you're told and only what you're told. You're starting tomorrow and you'll listen to everyone in here. Understood?"

Castiel nodded. "Thank you for the opportunity. It means a lot." And he was being sincere for once. "You won't be disappointed."

"Yeah, you still gotta work to earn our trust." He glanced the camera in the corner before approaching the angel. He fished a small key out of his pocket and unlocked the cuffs.

"Don't try to escape," the young man said.

"I'll do what I'm told," the angel responded. His captor nodded once.

"Just don't escape," he said one last time. Without saying another word, he left the room and locked the door again.

Castiel glanced at the one light in his room. There was no window – the only source of light came from that one lightbulb. Based on how much time he believed must have passed, the night must be falling. If it wasn't dark already.

Castiel took off the trench coat and lay down on the bed, using his coat as a blanket. He'd need to get some sleep. He did not know the time; he did not know when these people usually got up. He did not know what they would make him do, so he probably needed to sleep.

And his mind drifted and he fell asleep despite the horrible circumstances.


	6. Deveraux

The utmost western district in the city was not one where many people lived. The houses were run-down; the roofs could collapse any moment; the buildings would be better off destroyed to allow for sturdier, better housing to be built in its place. But because it may benefit some humans and no angel was interested in living there, Michael was not in a hurry to improve the neighborhood. The old houses stood proudly and everyone moved away.

Everyone, except one man, vigorously at work at the edge of this district. He'd picked out the sturdiest-looking house and chose it as his hide-out, as his home. The resistance helped to make it somewhat more livable. Most peculiar were three desktops, all standing next to one another in what once was the living room, all of which held priceless information that had taken months to gather and compile.

Hours passed; the man barely stopped. He only ever stepped out of the house and out of the district to get more information out of the right people. He never made a habit of walking the same roads or visiting the same places more than twice. The city was big enough to facilitate his needs not to be predictable when he made his way about the narrower and wider streets. If he were forced too, he would not hesitate to go home through the sewers. He'd done it once before; he hadn't smelled good, but it was worth staying out of sight for.

This man, Frank Deveraux, could most easily be described as a paranoid survivalist. He did not stay with the resistance at their base because, with such high numbers, the chances of discovery also increased. He did not frequent the same places as not to create even an acquaintanceship with strangers. What he lacked in social interaction, he made up in time spent behind the computer, watching footage made by his hidden cameras, monitoring even the slightest movements or change in behaviors, especially from angels.

The methods were effective. So far, he had stayed out of the angel's hands and – more importantly – under their radar.

The angels were aware of his existence. they targeted him. They just did not know who to target specifically.

Deveraux was in the possession of dangerous information. Using the old satellites still orbiting the planet to this day, he discovered angel secrets. He observed the angels; he knew their identities from before conversion and all of their abilities. He figured out their secret hideouts and warehouses. Most importantly, he located the main headquarters.

Since the rise of the resistance, they had moved it to a more secretive, secure location, to prevent an all-out attack. through the activities of those young angels who could not yet fly, Deveraux found this crown jewel of intel, the one detail missing from the resistance intelligence for so long.

Because of the threat he posed, the angels assumed Deveraux knew everything about them. Their priority was finding him, and it was only a matter of time before they did.

Frank Deveraux placed all of his gathered intel in encrypted files on the desktop, to send it to the bunker. If all went well, they should be able to receive this information. But since he'd found out so much since he last sent intel, it took a while for all the files to process. The locations of the warehouses were already transmitted – the other files were larger and needed more time to render before they could be sent. Just a couple more minutes and it would be sent through as well.

"Frank Deveraux."

The man grabbed the dagger lying next to his keyboard and turned around, ready to defend himself from whoever had found him. A cold hand grabbed his wrist. With a sickening snap, the intruding angel broke it.

Deveraux briefly screamed. The pain seared through his arm, but there was a more pressing situation at the moment. His wrist could wait (though it still hurt).

He watched the angel who'd found him. The angel was on the older side, white hair and a strangely polite smile. With just one glance Frank recognized him: Zachariah. He looked older than he was at this moment – Deveraux had figured out Zachariah was supposed to be around his age, around forty years old. His hair should've still been brown and lightly graying. That was the toll of being an angel with so many attributes and responsibilities.

Zachariah was unimpressed with the set-up of the room. He merely smiled his politely arrogant smile and folded his arms.

"You are a hard man to find," the angel said.

"That's the idea," Deveraux responded, still clutching his broken wrist.

Zachariah glanced at the computers. "If you would be so helpful to give up and delete what you've got on the computers."

Deveraux shook his head. "You're not getting anything from there."

"We'll see," Zachariah replied. He pushed Deveraux into the wall, after which he fell to the ground. As Zachariah looked at the computer, he did not recognize the code Deveraux had developed. The information was encrypted, after all, and only Deveraux held the key. Then there was the failsafe that would allow for the information to be sent out into the world if anyone pushed in so much as the wrong key.

Deveraux stood up and started laughing to himself. This frustrated Zachariah.

"Go ahead," he taunted Zachariah. "Do your thing. When you do, everyone will know about your one-night stand."

Zachariah, his face redder than ever, turned a furious and distraught gaze towards Deveraux. The next second, he'd flown to the mortal and grabbed the mortal's throat with his left hand, pushing him into the wall.

"What did you say?" It was no louder than a whisper – an attempt to straighten out the truth, to have Deveraux deny his previous words. But Deveraux only gurgled and grinned.

"If that leaks out, you're done for. I thought angels aren't allowed to have sex, let alone offspring. Or did Michael approve of it?"

Zachariah's face changed from fury to disgust to fear to fury again. He placed his right hand on the man's head and pushed his angelic energy into him. The energy surged through Deveraux's body, unable to hold it. The seething pain in his head and body burst in bolts of energy through Deveraux's eyes and mouth. Once the energy was gone, his eyes had been burned out of their socket and Deveraux was dead.

Zachariah tossed the mess aside. He could've made a cleaner kill, but he couldn't do it. Not after what Deveraux had insinuated. He tried to push it out of his head, but these attempts were futile. His mind was racing. If Deveraux knew of this affair, it had to be somewhere on the computer, too. If that ever got out…

No. This wasn't going to get out. He had come to stop Deveraux and figure out what he knew, but his mission had slightly shifted – Zachariah needed to save his dignity and delete the file holding it before presenting what he found to Michael and other interested parties.

He still heeded Deveraux's words. Zachariah didn't know which elaborate security measures Deveraux had taken. Anything he did wrong could have catastrophic results, not just for Zachariah's reputation, but also for the entirety of the angel population. On top of that, Zachariah did not know anything about computers beyond the basics and barely used them in his day-to-day life. He would need much more than the basics to figure out how to delete them and he was not comfortable calling in another angel, who might find out his secret.

Then Zachariah had a bright idea. With a bit of luck, Deveraux had not taken the destruction of the computers and their mainframe. He was more on the technical side and, as far as Zachariah knew, destroying it all wouldn't harm anything. It would mean not knowing what Deveraux had found out. Still, if he wouldn't know, the resistance wouldn't know either. That did not take away the fear Zachariah felt for his secret spreading if he made the wrong move.

Zachariah decided to destroy the mainframe and the computers. When he was done with them, only a pile of ashes remained.

Whether the information was shared on the internet because of his actions was a mystery to him. Zachariah also did not know that Deveraux had already sent an encrypted code to the resistance with some locations and secret identities, but not all of them. He just knew he did the right thing, by protecting his secret and keeping the info out of the resistance's hands. Nobody would know.

As far as he was concerned, the mission had been a success. He could still lie and say Deveraux destroyed the files just before Zachariah showed up. Dead men tell no tales and nothing in there could contradict Zachariah's story.


	7. Infirmray

Castiel woke up when the door was unlocked. Castiel pushed himself to sit upright. He wouldn't want to make them believe he was faking being asleep to assault them. On the other side, it might leave a good impression that he was already awaiting the new day and his first job inside the resistance.

The young leader of the resistance, the one who brought him here, Dean, now came to wake up the angel. He was pleasantly surprised Castiel was already awake.

"You're awake," Dean said. "Well, get ready."

Castiel followed this order. There wasn't much to 'get ready' for, but he put on his shoes and trench coat, still warm from having used it as a blanket the other night. He then stood up and followed Dean out of his cramped cell.

Wherever Dean was leading him, the road was long and convoluted. Many twists and turns lay on the road, they climbed to the first floor only to descend to the ground floor again. Castiel guessed that Dean did not trust him to know where certain places within the resistance were, so they had to take this detour. That, or he wanted to disorient Castiel and make it harder for him to return to the room on his own without getting lost.

Maybe later, Castiel could travel in straight lines and walk two minutes over what now took more than five. For now, it should satisfy him that they allowed him to go out of his cell for what probably was the first test of faith.

As soon as they entered the infirmary, Castiel figured what he was supposed to do today. That these people – even those on the brink of death – were not even going to the hospital for proper treatment was a testament to the resistance's paranoia of getting caught.

Castiel quickly counted twenty beds, all of them cramped within the limited space of the room. While this room wasn't small at all, the beds and their placement made it look that way. Thirteen beds were filled, five others looked like someone had spent the night there. The remaining two had not been used last night nor had they been made.

The patients themselves looked miserable. From what Castiel could see, one had lost an arm, two were not moving at all and the others were awake and either visibly in pain or numb. What ailed them was not always visible, but with his healer's touch, it would be easy to discover what was wrong with them.

"Heal them," Dean told him, looking at the room.

If the patients noticed the angel, they were not surprised and ignored him. They may have been told a while ago that a friendly angel would heal them. This was fortunate for Castiel – stress usually interfered with his healing. If they had been anxious and still were, knowing an angel would be up close to heal them, Castiel could truthfully point to their stress when not everything was healed, or something hadn't healed properly.

"I will try," Castiel replied.

"Try?" the leader sounded skeptical.

"Yes. Healing is still a new attribute. I haven't fully mastered it yet." He was very certain that he'd told Garth about this already. Hadn't Dean listened to the conversation or had he already forgotten this detail? "I can treat them. I just don't know whether I'll always be successful."

"You're treating them, underdeveloped or not,"' Dean said. Castiel nodded.

"I will." They walked further into the infirmary, moving to the occupied bed that was closest to them. They would do a tour from the front of the room towards the back. The first patient of the thirteen was a middle-aged brunette woman. She was coughing loudly and continuously and there was a rash on her arms. Castiel was not familiar with the illness or the infection.

The angel placed his hand on the woman's head and looked for the source of her illness. It wasn't lethal or infectious, just highly volatile with a plethora of symptoms. He relieved the woman of the cough and burned away ninety percent of the infection. The remaining ten percent would remain dormant and break out again after a while, or the body's immune system could fight it. The symptoms vanished immediately, and the woman seemed to be cured, other than a sore throat.

The woman thanked him, though she was still wary of him. He accepted her thanks with a small nod. Dean approved of it.

He moved on to the next patient: an older man who was ailing and toeing the line of consciousness. Sweat covered his forehead and when Castiel placed his hand, he felt the forehead was also hot. Castiel located the cause of this fever – but it was not a fever at all. It was something worse, something Castiel couldn't quite place, but it was deadly. Since the man was old enough to be someone's grandfather and may not have too long to live anyway, Castiel burned away the infection. Castiel did not tell the man what fate he had just avoided – as far as the man was concerned, he'd just survived a serious fever.

Again, the patient thanked him. Castiel nodded again, not knowing how else to respond to it. Dean still closely watched him and his every move, though Castiel hoped these two successful treatments have made Dean less wary or suspicious of him.

When they arrived at the next patient, Castiel was shocked. This girl could not be older than twenty; she looked way younger than that. She was awake and shouting; he had heard those screams since they entered the room. Such a young woman shouldn't be throwing her life away for a lost cause. She should at least consider leaving the resistance after treatment – it had already cost her an arm. Now the stump was infected. The bandages were not drenched, but there still was a lot of blood. Whatever they had tried to save her, it hadn't worked out the way they wanted.

For the first time, Castiel was sorry for a person who – most likely – got hurt because an angel decided she should lose her arm. It was a miracle she was still alive. Castiel took away her pain and the infection in the stump. This time, he left nothing behind. The girl was grateful at least one angel wanted to help, that one of them was good. He told her to be more careful and to rest and she promised to do so.

Now he just hadn't taken away the pain – he had also given her some hope. This did not slip Dean's attention.

The next eight patients were not worth recalling. The one thing worth mentioning was that there were two children, a girl and a boy, suffering from pneumonia. Castiel didn't believe this was a place for children and fully healed them. The other six did not have that privilege. Each time, he burnt away enough of what ailed these people not to leave any visible symptoms, but he left enough in so that the illness could return at a later time. In the meantime, Dean did not suspect that these people were not completely treated and illness-free. If he suspected something, he didn't show it.

Castiel and Dean moved to the last two patients, two unconscious people in the back. They lay on opposite sides of the room; an older man and a younger woman. They were the only patients that were hooked up to machines to monitor and help them. Because of this set-up, Castiel believed that if anyone were to have been brought to the hospital, it would have been these two.

Castiel treated the older man first. His graying hairline was receding and his skin had turned pale from a lack of sunlight. He looked weak and pathetic; a couple of machines monitored his heart and lungs and blood pressure. But nothing was being administered to him; he was probably in some coma and some people were not ready to let him go.

Castiel placed his hand on the man's forehead and felt nothing. There was nothing to heal; it was just empty. Everything worked as it should and Castiel could find nothing to even fix; not even a ruptured stomach or hurt pelvis. Clinically, this man was perfectly healthy and all the organs were still working just fine. The one thing he could pick up on was the suspicious inactivity in the brain.

This man was braindead.

Castiel eventually pulled away his hand. With no visible result, Dean turned his frowning gaze to the angel.

"Did you treat him?" He had a skeptical tone. He feared that Castiel just placed his hand on the head and did nothing this time around.

"I didn't heal him," Castiel said truthfully.

"What?"

"I cannot heal him," Castiel rephrased, "because there is nothing to heal."

Dean blinked twice, glanced from the angel to the old man, and looked at him quizzically. Castiel did not like how Dean seemed to be too stupid to realize what might be going on, but now he was blinded by the misconduct of the angel under their wings.

"I can only mend bones and treat illnesses. I cannot piece together a faulty mind or activate one that has been turned off." And if Dean did not get it then, he truly was stupid.

"So you can't help him," Dean said. Castiel nodded.

"Unfortunately."

Dean sighed as if this was something frustrating rather than tragic. "Thanks for trying," Dean said grumpily. Castiel had good reason to believe he did not mean it.

Castiel turned to his last patient of the day, the young blonde. There were many more machines hooked to her than to the man – she seemed off worse than him. Many wires ran from her to the machines; they had jammed a tube through her throat for artificial breathing and her skin was ashen, her hair pale. She was not well and without Castiel's help, she might die soon. It looked like she should have died already.

Castiel quickly glanced at Dean. He seemed nervous about the outcome of this treatment session – he stood closer, watched Castiel closer, seemed much more invested than before. Castiel assumed they knew each other before something happened to her. Maybe they were related. Maybe an incident brought them closer. Maybe they went through the same thing and only he made it out unscathed.

Castiel placed his hand on her head and was overcome with the need to pull back. The touch was uncomfortable, but it was no different than before. It was something inside of her that made him feel this way – another energy source, foreign to this body, dark and angry and unhappy with Castiel's presence and intentions.

He wanted to pull back and tell Dean it had failed. But if he did, he had no idea how Dean would react. He couldn't not treat her. To satisfy Dean, he had to follow through with the motion. Castiel closed his hands and focused. Here it goes.

It backfired. The dark energy took over his healing energy and pushed right back at Castiel, who became nauseous. He learned more about it – the energy, the cause of her problems, did not want to leave. It wanted to hurt the host as much as it could by bringing her to the brink of death, but not killing her.

Castiel sweated. Nightmares flashed before his eyes – fragments of the worst scenarios, worst feelings, worst pain imaginable. All thrust upon him, all flowing through the girl's mind. This energy was evil, shouting "Mine!" "Can't have her!" and making Castiel feel worse with every passing millisecond.

Castiel's legs trembled. He would pass out. He broke contact and staggered backward, sitting down in the empty bed and staring at her. Nausea, sweat, vertigo, all faded away easily.

_What just happened?_

"What the hell?" Dean said. He was just as confused about this as Castiel was. For the first time in his life, he saw an angel too shocked by recent events to continue. He glanced at the woman, concerned she could not be treated either.

"She's…" Castiel shook his head. How could he explain this in a way that made sense? "She's… she's possessed."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Possessed?"

Castiel nodded. As far as explanations went, good enough. "Yes. There's something, an energy, inside of her. I can't do my job."

"Try again," Dean said, his eyes fixated on the girl's ashen face. Still wary of what slumbered inside of her, he shook his head once.

"I do not believe the outcome will be any different." There was no benefit from trying again – there would be the same results.

"Try it," Dean said. Castiel looked at him; he really couldn't care less about Castiel's wellbeing, as long as he could treat her and make her better. He was expecting an outcome Castiel could not guarantee. So, for fear of repercussions and to get in good graces with him, Castiel approached the woman hesitantly.

He placed his hand on her forehead again and was overwhelmed. The energy recognized him and threw everything he had to Castiel – the whispers, the horrific images, the negative feelings. It was a malicious virus that viciously protected its host. Castiel struggled to keep his focus to heal her, struggle to overcome the energy. All symptoms from before returned. This time, Castiel's vision was already gone when he stopped. He sat down on the bed behind him again, panting. As expected, it hadn't gone well.

Dean looked at him with critical eyes. Castiel had one response.

"I cannot heal her." And he would not try again – no resistance member was worth a third chance, even one whose mystery virus intrigued him. What happened to her that brought this energy inside of her?

"Are you doing this on purpose?" Dean asked, a hostile look in his eyes. After what Castiel now twice had gone through, after two true attempts to save her, Castiel was not in the mood for a hostile attitude. He glared at Dean.

"No," he said, trying his hardest to stay calm. "Something's possessed her."

And if he couldn't save her, not even the hospital could. She would have to stay like this until her body gave up.

"Or is that an excuse?" Dean asked.

"It is not," Castiel said. He would not let a human give him shit for something he never did. In hindsight, he should've tried not to save her. Dean would still be pissed, but at least Castiel wouldn't feel like he had to prove him wrong.

"Dean."

Castiel and Dean turned their heads. A man had walked in, at least twice as old as Dean. An old blue cap hid his hair and he had a short brown beard. From the way Dean reacted to him, he must be respected either within the resistance or by Dean himself. Castiel assumed the man was superior to Dean.

"Can I have a word?" the man asked. Dean nodded and turned to Castiel, glaring daggers.

"Don't go anywhere," he threatened.

"I won't leave the room," Castiel promised.

Dean left the room for a conversation with the man. Castiel kept his promise and stayed, going against the urge to explore on his own. Still, that'd be hard with Dean breathing down his neck. Hopefully, they would show him around one day without the redirections.

For now, he just waited impatiently for Dean to return.

* * *

Dean did not like leaving the angel with Jo, Donnatello and everyone else who was in the infirmary. But with so many witnesses that stayed in their beds and were awake, he hoped someone would raise the alarm if something happened.

Still, he didn't leave the infirmary too far behind. Bobby luckily wanted to stay outside of the room, too, so they could see it if the angel attempted to leave. If he truly couldn't fly, as he claimed.

What was that angel's deal? He healed the others with no problem. Donatello… was braindead, which wasn't a surprise, but they still had hoped something else was going on. But despite the failure with Donnatello, Dean had expected Castiel could effortlessly make Jo better, especially after the eleven successes.

He should have healed her. She was the last survivor of the accident. Cole was dead, so was Ellen, Sam was seriously messed up… if anyone could have made it out unharmed, it should've been Jo. She had to make it.

"Can you focus?" Bobby asked. Dean snapped out of his thoughts and stared at Bobby.

"I'm sorry," he said, rubbing his forehead. This had thrown him off. "It's just… Jo…"

"I know," Bobby said. He had seen how the angel had tried to save Jo and then Dean's reaction to the failure. They couldn't force Castiel to continue if he didn't want to; which was a shame. Bobby, too, had grown fond of Jo and her spirit over the years, but he did not ignore the angel's strange reaction to her.

"What is it?" Dean then asked. What was so important that Bobby took him away from the angel?

"Deveraux sent us more files." Dean's bad mood cleared a little.

"He did?" It had been so long since they had received any news from Frank Deveraux. Dean thought someone had killed Frank. Now new information was sent through, it confirmed Deveraux was still alive and he had found something worth sending through. Bobby nodded.

"He sent us many locations, but not so much on angels. Overall, there aren't a lot of files." Because Deveraux labeled all of his files with specific codes, the resistance kept a list – through the first three digits, they knew what each file held.

"Not a lot?" Dean frowned.

"A couple dozen."

"Really?" Deveraux usually sent in multiple files, averaging about five hundred files at a time. Often the info in these files was short and concise and contained all the information they needed.

Something must have happened to him, though neither Dean nor Bobby wanted to speak it into existence. He must have been in a haste to send these files – maybe he was killed. Or he only sent through those files whose quality was perfect. Maybe he didn't die at all. You never knew with Deveraux.

"What locations?"

"I'm guessing weapons vaults, training centers, food banks… maybe the location of their headquarters." Dean listened carefully; this was all great, but they first needed to read those files to see what exactly these locations were. With so few files, there shouldn't be a problem.

"Anything else?"

"Crowley wants to talk."

_Crap._

Dean could deal with a lot at the same time. Deveraux's info, the angel in the infirmary, trying to run the resistance with the other members of the council, and anything else life threw his way. But having Crowley added to this list was only more likely to make Dean even more stressed. Preparing to meet him would demand all of his time.

"We're not doing enough, according to him." Dean sighed in exasperation.

"Not doing enough…" he muttered under his breath and shook his head. "He's the one sitting on his bass and not doing anything." He was the behind-the-scenes kind of mob boss who gave orders but would take none. Not even being a Fallen Angel excused him from being inactive. He was quite a pain in the ass to work with, but still invaluable. "Hell, if anyone should be actively fighting back –"

"You might not want to insult him," Bobby said. Luckily, it hadn't happened before, but they couldn't risk Crowley breaking ties with them. Much of their funding depended on it.

"What aren't we doing enough this time?" Dean asked.

Bobby shrugged. "Didn't say it." How frustratingly vague! He should've at least been more straightforward.

"So I have to look after this angel, I need to see Deveraux's information and prepare a rendezvous with Crowley." Dean shook his head and groaned. Such a full schedule. "Anything else I gotta do today?"

"Why don't you start right away?" Bobby suggested. Dean glanced at the infirmary's door. The angel was in there. The angel Dean had vouched for against all logic. His responsibility. His burden. He couldn't leave the angel in there on his own; who knows what that sneaky bastard would do if Dean was gone?

"The angel—"

"I'll keep him busy," Bobby said. "You don't need to stay with him every second of the day." It would've been better if he didn't have a permanent caretaker, so anyone could look after him. Now Dean had taken it upon himself to make sure the angel did not step out of line. Knowing Dean, this loyalty test also had another goal, one Bobby easily saw through.

"You shouldn't have brought him here." Dean frowned.

"Why not?" He wondered. "He's doing his job. Well, most of the time." Only Donnatello and Jo were not treated, and only for Donnatello did the angel have a good reason.

"You'll dive too deep into this," Bobby said. "You brought him here and if the results don't meet your expectations, you go off. You're looking for every little bad thing or failure to berate him." And if it were up to Bobby, they wouldn't introduce Castiel to the infirmary until they had made sure he was trustworthy.

"He's an angel," Dean responded. "Everything he does is bad."

Bobby saw much of himself in Dean, but that hatred towards angels came from experience and childhood tales.

Dean's father had carried the gene. He dropped off his children at Bobby's, a good friend, and left. Dean was four, little Sam only six months. After this, Bobby could not say a good word about the person his friend had become. Though John did abominable things, Bobby wasn't with the resistance then and did not keep track of his friend. John could be anywhere, could have adopted any name to leave his past behind. The badmouthing had given a terrible impression of John to his children as well as experience, first outside of and later as part of the resistance.

Bobby was skeptical of the angel in the infirmary, but he did not hate him. He had no personal connection to the angel. If this angel had truly fallen, they could gain a valuable ally. But if he was lying – the chance was real – he did not deserve to be here, and he'd slip up eventually. Still, if his intentions were true, he might want to leave if Dean kept belittling him and not see the good inside of him.

It had taken Bobby a while to learn this moderate skepticism about allies instead of blindly hating those who had undergone training. Dean should do well to see things from this perspective.

"So treating those patients was a bad thing?" Bobby asked Dean.

An awkward silence fell. Dean was rendered speechless for a while, but his brain undoubtedly was going into overdrive.

"Look, I don't like him either," Bobby said. "You can make yourself useful by preparing to meet Crowley. I'll look after him, put him someplace he can't do any harm." Or places where he shouldn't be able to do any harm. The kitchen, translation room… in places like this, where he wouldn't come into contact with too much sensitive information he might pass on to the angel leadership.

"But—" Dean tried once again. Bobby wouldn't let him finish.

"I can handle it. Now go."

Dean sighed. This was a fight he couldn't win.

"Don't let him out of sight," Dean said before he glanced at the infirmary door one last time and walked to his room, where he would learn what they were doing wrong in Crowley's eyes and to prepare for the arguments he'd use when he stood face-to-face with the leader.

As long as the angel was around Bobby, he wouldn't dare to take any risks. Bobby was a busy man himself, but he knew exactly where to place Castiel so he could prove he's worth the trust without putting the lives of their most vulnerable into his hands. Places where others will watch over him, where this social control might deter him from harming any of them.

* * *

Only five minutes after Dean had left Castiel in the infirmary, Bobby walked in. Castiel had patiently waited, not attempting to treat anyone else or to try with Jo one last time. He had cast glances at her – there was something stronger than him inside that woman, and it frustrated him that he didn't know what it was.

Castiel could not read Bobby's face, but his conversation with Dean might not have gone as he had expected. Castiel did not care about it either way; though he couldn't help but be interested in it.

"So, you healed these people?" Bobby asked.

"I did."

"And how come it didn't work on Donnatello and Jo?"

Bobby looked at the two in the back, the ones Castiel failed to heal.

"Donnatello is braindead, the machines are keeping him alive. There's no consciousness, nothing to heal. As for Jo…"

Castiel paused. What an enigma this energy was.

"Something prevented me from treating her. It's some sort of energy, almost like an angel's. I can't put my finger on it, but it's strange. It did not allow me to heal her. It draws on her life force without killing her. It's agony."

Bobby watched him observantly. Castiel thought he gauged how much of what was said was true. Only Castiel knew he was speaking the truth and he hoped that it showed.

"When it's strange, you can't do a lot about it," Bobby said. The words were skeptical, as if he tested the waters. Castiel did not respond; he did not know what to say that would not make him look suspicious in Bobby's eyes.

"We're gonna leave now," Bobby then continued. "I'm going to look after you for a while. I'll bring you to different rooms and you will do what you're told to do, and only what you're told to do. Is that clear?"

Castiel did not like those terms, but if he behaved himself, he could get a look at the inner workings of the resistance, he would have to comply. Castiel nodded in response.

"Alright," Bobby then said. "Follow me. I've got a job for you."


	8. Work to do

_Day 1_

Castiel like the little freedom they gave him. It wasn't as much as he had wanted it, but given that he was only with the resistance for a day, this was more than enough for now. The only thing he disliked about this restricted freedom was that he could not leave the room where he'd have to work.

When the first angels evolved from men, they created an artificial language and writing system. Since then, it has gone out of use. Some relics have been inscribed with this language and while Castiel had never been taught the language, he was familiar enough with the writing system to guess what it said in the language.

Whatever the use or history was, Castiel would never believe some angel would carve angel secrets in stone. Or that some college-aged kid had learned that language.

No matter how he looked at it, Kevin Tran was a smart young man who tried his best to do this work for the resistance. When they saved him from an angel attack and he stayed with the resistance, he wanted to do something in return. He decided he would translate that tablet. It impressed Castiel – Kevin knew the language better than him – but he did not admire the boy for it.

While Kevin learned the language, he did it off of documents written in the Latin script. He could barely read the alphabet. Familiarity with the different letters for the different sounds was not enough, and the translation process thus became tediously slow. From what Castiel had learned from listening in to conversations, Donnatello – Kevin's mentor – wrote what the tablet said in the Latin script and Kevin translated the words and sentences. Castiel would replace Donnatello and would be forced to transcribe the text.

So Castiel sat down next to the tablet and transcribed the message.

He soon found the right balance. He transcribed the text but worked at a slower pace, to slow down the process as much as he could. Castiel justified his speed by telling the truth: it's not a focus of the angel leadership and they only brought it up four times. He did not mention that those four courses were very intensive. He also doubled the time by first writing the text in the original script on a piece of paper and then writing each corresponding Latin letter separately underneath it.

The work was slow and tedious. Every so often, Castiel tried to read what Kevin had translated. The boy was not stupid and Bobby had told him that Castiel was an angel that needed to be watched. He kept the translation out of Castiel's sight and only ever wrote on one side of a piece of paper. If Castiel wanted to read it, he would have to pick it up and turn it around.

"Have you—" Kevin began, but he paused. Castiel looked up from the stone and stared at Kevin quizzically. "Have you gone to the infirmary yet?"

Castiel nodded. "Yes, I have."

Kevin shifted in his seat. He might have moved one inch closer to the angel. The young man could barely look at Castiel, but his burning question needed to be answered.

"So, could you—" he paused again. Castiel wished the kid would just say it, but he waited for Kevin to gather his strength. "Did you heal Donnatello?"

Castiel could have guessed that would be the question.

"I'm sorry, but there was nothing to heal." The man had lost his mind in the most literal sense of the word. There were no brain waves contributing to a mind, nothing that made him do anything more than just exist.

Castiel became curious. "What happened to him?" If he understood the problem, he might try to get Kevin on his side.

"We don't know." Kevin shrugged. "One moment he was fine, the next he fell to the ground. It was weird."

"It is strange," Castiel agreed. "But unfortunately, I can't help him. He will have to wake up himself."

There were a couple moments of silence.

"Thanks for trying," Kevin said and he resumed his work. That was Castiel's cue to transcribe the stone again. But before he could do so, Kevin passed one of the previous papers to Castiel.

"Are you sure this is supposed to be an 'n'?" Kevin asked. Castiel only glanced at it.

"Yes." It was not an 'n'. Castiel had messed with the handwriting enough throughout the day so Kevin could not easily verify this. The small change could mess up the translation of a sentence. If not, it would at least screw up the translation of a possible important word. Which would be great to keep the information out of the resistance's hands.

* * *

_Day 2_

It was safe to say Charlie hated him.

Not just the general 'I hate angels and you're an angel so I hate you' either – she seemed to hold a specific grudge against him, though he was certain he never met her before. Though humans were unremarkable, he would have remembered her.

Bobby had told her Castiel was an angel, so she wouldn't expose him to sensitive information. Still, Charlie took up the offer to look after him and had a special job in mind. He was to stand in the corner, facing the wall, and was not to move or do anything without Charlie's permission. Castiel would not have minded if this did not defeat the purpose of his surrender. It was rather pessimistic – being in the room where all the important stuff was, and not being able to take even one look at it.

Castiel asked questions from time to time. Each time she shot him down. They weren't even big questions. "Can I turn around?" "Can I stretch my legs?" It was rather annoying. Castiel wished that, instead of wasting his time in the corner, he could spend some time in his cell. Not even sensitive information was a good incentive to stay at all if she only allowed him to stare at the same greasy spot in the wall for hours on end.

Every so often, Charlie would come to his corner and tapped him on his shoulder. She showed him a low-quality picture of what Castiel assumed to be an angel they wanted information about. In half of the cases, Castiel did not know the person in the pictures. The other half was unintelligible to where he would not even recognize a familiar face in one of them.

"Why don't you know any of them?" Charlie asked him. She had caught that Castiel never identified the angels and believed him to be lying.

"I'm a young angel," Castiel said without hesitation. "I have not been in contact with many angels other than my superiors and fellow trainees. If I recognize them on a picture, I will tell you."

Even if she were to show him Zachariah, Castiel would claim not to know him, especially since it might hinder Charlie's work. While she continued, Castiel stayed in the corner and took the time to figure out how to get in touch with his superiors and how to gather more intelligence.

* * *

_Day 3_

After working with Kevin and Charlie, he expected to go someplace with a similar set-up: a room with information, which they would not allow him to see. He hadn't expected to end up in the kitchen, where he would not have access to information, but knives. The most boring location in the entire base.

Unlike Kevin and Charlie, the people in the kitchen did not know Castiel was an angel. Bobby had told them 'Cas' – stupid nickname – was new, simple-minded and that they wanted to make him feel useful. They also were encouraged to keep an eye on him. Unlike Charlie, they respected him as a person, but only because they did not know he was an angel.

The cooks immediately put him to the test: Can he peel potatoes? What a silly question, of course he could! So that was his job for the rest of the day – peeling potatoes, one after the other. Castiel felt like he peeled so many potatoes, it would feed the entire resistance population twice (according to his estimates) but he did not complain. He silently cursed the cooks and went through the motions.

"Hey."

Castiel lifted his head. A short, middle-aged man with graying curls and beard stood in front of him. a strange smile lay upon his face, one that conveyed excitement and fear.

"Hey," Castiel responded awkwardly. What else could he say?

The man had a towel in his hands. The dishwasher had left, so it seemed this man took the next shift. Whether he'd been here for a minute or half an hour, Castiel did not know.

"I'm Marv," the man continued. "Just Marv, nothing else."

"Okay," Castiel said and he turned his attention to the potatoes again. The conservation did not bore him, but he did not want to hold a conversation with the dishwasher who seemed overly excited about it.

"You're…" Marv glanced suspiciously around the room and leaned closer to Castiel, continuing in a whisper. "You're the angel, right?"

Castiel frowned. Had Bobby told them he was an angel and he hadn't picked up on it? Or did this man ask and had Bobby answered honestly? Marv noticed the frown and was quick to explain himself.

"I may have been listening to the meetings where they were talking about you," he confessed.

Castiel took a good look at him. Marv did not look like he was part of the leadership. So he was an eavesdropper. That was the only interesting part about him at the moment.

"Your name is Castiel, right?"

"Yes," Castiel responded.

"Can I call you Cas?"

"No." Castiel was his name, his only name, and they were to use it in full. It was his identity and even though he had to pretend to reject the angels and everything they stood for, this did not apply to his name, the one link he still had to his kind inside this building.

"So exciting! An actual angel that doesn't want to kill me," Marv continued, still speaking soft enough so the cooks would not hear it. Castiel doubted they would hear anything, as they worked in a concentrated manner and took their jobs very seriously.

Marv shrugged. "Or maybe you do. It wouldn't be the first time anyone would want to." Castiel nodded. He understood why anyone would want to get rid of Marv. He was annoying, at the very least, and though Castiel did not want this blabbermouth to shut up, he could get why people would want him to stay silent.

"I'm not the most liked person around here," Marv explained. He glanced around the kitchen. "That's why they condemned me to the kitchen. Where nobody likes me either."

Castiel lifted his head and looked at Marv with little interest. "You're not a cook."

Marv shook his head and almost laughed. "Hell, no! I'm a writer. But according to Dean, writing is a waste of time and paper and I should do something else. Something that is _not_ a creative outlet." The lack of appreciation for his 'talent' frustrated Marv. As he spoke, Marv was cleaning some dishes and glasses and cutlery, giving more attention to the angel and his job.

"You write fiction?" Castiel asked him.

"No. I write history," Marv corrected him. "The history of the now, lest we forget the details in the future. When I get to write everything down, future historians will thank me. Nobody else is doing it." Marv nodded to himself; he was certain of this. Someone had to do it, and so he would write down everything.

But, Castiel thought, would that include the inner workings of the resistance? Marv was an eavesdropper – was he prone to writing down sensitive information? Where was he keeping the pages he'd already written down? So much information for the taking…

"Am I talking too much?" Marv wondered in a moment of self-awareness. "I feel like I'm talking too much."

"It doesn't bother me," Castiel said.

"It doesn't?" Marv sounded surprised. Apparently, few people tolerated him.

"No." It did, a little, but Marv could always mention one interesting detail, one thing that may destabilize the resistance. In that moment, cultivating a friendship with Marv may have become the highest priority.

"That's a first," Marv said. He was still stunned by the fact that someone would allow him to speak freely. "You know what? I think we might become good friends."

"Maybe," Castiel responded. He did not want to give in just yet; he needed to go over all his options and plan his next move, think over the words that would incite Marv to give him the information he needed.

"Marv!" a voice yelled from outside the kitchen. Castiel recognized it as Dean's voice. He did not sound happy and Marv even flinched when he heard his name.

"I gotta go," Marv said. "Duty calls!" He put down the plate and threw the towel over a nearby chair. He walked towards the door, but stopped and turned to Castiel. "Welcome to the resistance."

"Thank you," Castiel said. This had to be the first time someone had told him non-sarcastically, that they genuinely meant it.

"I'm glad you got out of that cult," Marv continued. "Because, let's be real, it's a cult that—"

"MARV!"

Marv stopped talking and rushed out of the room to go to Dean, leaving a perplexed Castiel behind. _A cult?_ Castiel was certain the angels weren't a cult. Either way, Marv left him with food for thought and a pile of unpeeled potatoes that had grown smaller.

Castiel continued his work and wished he would return to the kitchen on a later date, that Marv would be here, too, that they could continue their so rudely interrupted conversation. So that Marv could give Castiel ideas on how to dismantle the resistance.


	9. Crowley

"And you're sure you have no information on Zachariah?"

Charlie glared daggers at Dean. He couldn't blame her – this had to be the twentieth time he asked within the three days since Deveraux sent over his files. He could guess how it would go: no, there's nothing on Zachariah. From the twelve angels they did receive information about, Zachariah wasn't one of them. Even if he was, his new angel friend wouldn't have spoken about it.

And Dean would remind Charlie that if Castiel truly wanted to help, he would do so. If not, he would show his true colors eventually. Either way, he was an angel and probably needed to be taught how to interact with normal human beings again.

And when the silence had fallen again, his mind would wander right back to Zachariah. Compared to Castiel, Zachariah was an enigma. He must be older than Michael, based on his apparent age, and was inclined to take a leading role, yet happy to be second-in-command. He was old and ruthless and relentless but allowed Dean to live after he easily killed the men around him. "Leave and tell the tale," Zachariah had said with a menacing glare in his eyes. It was a strange action; what was the use of designating Dean the survivor while the brutality of the murders could easily determine the identity of the soldiers' murderer?

Dean tried to push it out of his mind and tried to focus on the locations they've received instead. This wasn't easy – his anger towards the angels as a collective had developed and mutated into an obsession with Zachariah, whom Dean wanted to kill more than any other angel. To keep his mind from wandering off, he tied Zachariah to the locations. Would Zachariah be in that hangar and what would he be planning in there?

Charlie did not share his obsession. She already equated all angels with one another and did not need a singular angel to focus all her anger and hate on, even if the anger manifested when communicating with the rogue angel who was currently in the kitchen.

Eventually, Dean and Charlie managed to put all of the locations in three big arbitrary categories: storage space, training facilities, and others. There probably weren't many angels in the storage areas, but they could immediately call on reinforcements. In contrast, there would be many angels in the training facilities and they should stay clear from those areas until they had more hard information about the number of angels in there. Then, the "other" category held everything they couldn't immediately place: headquarters, a small hospital, and anything the angels might need themselves. There was a big chance many angels hung around those locations as well; highly trained angels ready to fight at any given moment. These locations were no targets until the angel population was severely diminished.

Now they had all the information that Deveraux had sent them, they needed to figure out the best plan of attack. then they'd have to present it for the council, which would have to give it a green light before it could be carried out. Since Dean had taken Rufus' place, he could technically vote for his own plan – something he wouldn't do, at Bobby's request.

Just as Dean and Charlie were about to formulate a plan of attack, Bobby walked into the room.

"It's almost time to meet Crowley," Bobby said.

Dean sighed. "Can't you just do it?" he said. "I'm in the middle of something."

"He'll only listen to you," Bobby responded. "Besides, you've already prepared for it."

Dean rolled his eyes. Just because his conversations with Crowley had been the most successful, didn't mean he had become the designated spokesperson for the resistance. There were more than enough people here Crowley may like.

Either way, a conversation with Crowley never meant good news these days. If everything went well, they would receive money or weapons. Crowley liked to keep to himself, to be protected by the few people he trusted, to have his mind on the things he truly cared about. His interests luckily aligned with those the resistance held. Yet, as soon as something happened Crowley didn't like, he was the first to say what a piss-poor job they were doing.

His ideal rebel group was one that slaughtered the oppressing party. But the resistance only sometimes has that chance and their focus lies on finding soon-to-be angels and saving them before they are recruited. Crowley would also like to see these people dead because they carried the gene and would continue the problem.

"Fine," Dean grunted eventually. He didn't imagine the conversation would be good, that Crowley would demand something and threaten to pull the plug if they didn't do what he wanted them to do.

But the resistance wasn't Crowley's personal army and Dean wasn't his pawn, no matter how much money Crowley thought he could buy them for.

Dean left the room and Bobby took his place. While Dean was on his way to meet with their financial contributor, Bobby would help Charlie with the logistics of a plan of attack.

At least there was one positive to this mess. Dean would find out what Crowley thought they weren't doing enough of and how he would justify not lifting a finger in the fight against the common enemy. Maybe Dean would even tell Crowley to stop being so vague.

* * *

The drive was long and irritating, with lots of turns into one-way streets. Crowley had given them directions, but he seemed to have made it his mission to confuse whoever would meet him as to where the final destination was. But if you wanted to find your way back home after the meeting, Crowley wouldn't help – you had served your purpose as a conversational partner, so he did not need you anymore for today. Whether you made it home, was your problem.

This was the third time Dean would face Crowley on his own. By now, he started to recognize certain streets and signs. He started to know his way around and already remembered how he could best drive back to the bunker from Crowley's lair.

Dean turned to the left and hit a dead end. This is where the descriptions stopped – he had reached his destination. dean had parked his car on the side and stepped out of it. He had learned that Crowley did not like it when a car he did not recognize drove down the street and that he considered it as a provocation. So Dean had to walk to the house at the end of the street, where Crowley resided.

Dean looked at the houses to his right. Faces of tall men stared at him from the windows and the doorways. They worked for Crowley, no doubt about that. With all the money that Crowley had, he probably bought every property on the street to ensure no uninvited guests would see things they weren't supposed to see.

A total of ten men left the houses as Dean passed them by. They walked on to the street, ahead of Dean, and stopped. They formed a barrier and a clear message: up to here and no further.

Dean stopped in his tracks. Usually, these men would direct him into one of the houses so he could have a conversation with Crowley in private. But now, it seemed Crowley was coming towards him. That's a first.

Dean luckily didn't have to wait for too long. Behind him, he heard wings flapping, a sound he could only associate with something bad. Dean shrugged off that feeling – he was completely safe – and turned around. As expected, behind him stood Crowley.

He hadn't changed since they last met. He still sported a beard, still wore the same black suit. Whether this was his style or a statement against the organization he had fallen from, Dean would never know. Crowley wouldn't tell, either.

"Hello, Dean," Crowley said.

"Crowley," Dean said – not to be polite but rather to fill the silence. This already went off to a great start. Now he just needed to make sure not to shout or speak his mind too much. Crowley definitely wouldn't appreciate it.

"I'm so glad you came, " Crowley said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

What reason did he have to be amused at this exact moment? Dean didn't understand that man. With all his might, he managed not to roll his eyes.

"It's not like you're giving us much of a choice," Dean responded. And he wasn't planning on staying too long, either. If it took too long, he was going to leave. "So, what are we not 'doing enough' of?"

"Where do I start?" Crowley said, a little frustration seeping through in his tone. "You're struggling to stay afloat, your organization is terrible and you've only killed three angels in as many months. You did some things right, I'll give you that. But you've never quite reached the top."

Dean had to take a deep breath. So what if they only killed three? They had helped six to ten people who would have become angels if it weren't for their intervention. But Crowley cared more about murder than for intervention.

"We're not stupid," Dean responded, "and neither are the angels." They were no easy target and all angel deaths have happened after the resistance had waited for them to show up at a possible new angel's door and had overpowered them at least ten to one.

"But they are arrogant," Crowley emphasized. "Someone like yourself should've already found a way to exploit this."

The same could be said about you. With Crowley's knowledge and power, he could have easily found a way already. Why would he even prefer to stay behind the scenes while someone like him was much needed on the foreground, too?

"Even if we did, they don't take the bait anymore," Dean explained.

"Then you adapt. As they do," Crowley retorted.

Nothing happened for a couple of seconds. The two stared, each unwilling to give the other more space for their arguments. But the silence did not last that long in the end.

"Give me one reason why I should continue helping you," Crowley said.

At least he gave Dean a chance to win him over. Luckily, the resistance seemed to be his pet project, the one organization he seemed to pay a lot of attention to. they were versatile and exciting and killed angels, occasionally. It helped Crowley to further his goal. Now it was time to play into Crowley's expectations with their most recent developments.

"We have a plan."

"You always do." His slightly annoyed tone was clear – anything specific?

We have information," Dean continued. "We have intel on specific locations, warehouses and training centers. We're going to strike them at irregular times to keep the element of surprise. They don't know we have this information. We start with easier targets, with fewer guards, take away their space, destroy their stock and kill the guards. The better this works, the weaker they are if it comes to a final confrontation." And that was a big 'if'.

Crowley weighed Dean's words in silence, the plan and the probability of success. Dean waited somewhat impatiently for Crowley to approve the plan and was prepared to try and change his mind if he disapproved of it.

"That sounds promising," Crowley eventually said. What a relief! "You're a lucky man. You have my support."

Dean nodded once. "Thank you."

That was also the end of their conversation. Dean did not need to stay any longer than he already had and walked back to the Impala.

"If you fail," Crowley said as Dean was walking away, "You won't be given a second chance. I like to stay on the winning side. Don't forget that."

Dean briefly turned around to face Crowley again. "How could I forget?" And he faced the Impala again, his back to Crowley and his lackeys. Dean did not acknowledge them anymore. He stepped into the car and drove away.


	10. Nephilim

Michael called Zachariah to his office three days after he had found and killed Frank Deveraux. Though he had nothing to worry about – Zachariah destroyed the evidence – Zachariah was still nervous. Michael shouldn't have any reason to call him since he already would come in every few days for a status report. Being called in never was good news. Whenever Michael called you, you could expect fire and fury.

Michael's office was spacious and white. The walls, tiles, ceiling… everything was white, which contrasted with Michael's dark skin and choice of clothes. Zachariah, on the other hand, could more easily blend in with his white suit and skin.

Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary when Zachariah entered. Michael sat relaxed behind his desk and even smiled when Zachariah came in. He acted as if nothing was wrong.

Zachariah noticed the pieces of paper on the desk. From his position, he could not read them, but he assumed they were the reason why Michael wanted to see him. His eyes rested on the pile – did they reveal what he wanted to keep a secret?

Michael clapped his hands together as Zachariah approached the desk. He did not offer Zachariah a chair, so his inferior remained standing.

"I've read the report you wrote on Deveraux," Michael started the conversation. "You did quite an impressive job… if what you describe is the complete truth."

Zachariah did not trust the phrasing Michael had used. The complete truth. There was an accusation built into the sentence and it made Zachariah even more nervous.

"Thank you, sir," Zachariah responded with a modest nod. "I would like to assert that I would never lie to you."

"Not even if it would benefit you?" Michael asked. Zachariah shook his head.

"Not even then."

Michael nodded once and turned his gaze to Zachariah's report. He took his time to read it over one last time before he placed it on the desk before him.

"I would congratulate you…" Michael lifted his head and shot Zachariah a disappointed look. "If you prevented our secrets from being leaked."

"Excuse me?" Zachariah said. as far as he knew, he hadn't done anything wrong. He had fulfilled his missing to find and kill Frank Deveraux and to destroy his files. He had done exactly what was asked of him. So what was Michael thinking of? Was there something Zachariah had overlooked?

"My experts found files with sensitive information on the world wide web," Michael emphasized the last three words, to make sure Zachariah understood the scope of this mistake.

Zachariah should admit he must have handled something wrong. He had already acknowledged the mistake of destroying the hard drives and desktops in the report, though he did not know this might be a mistake he made at the time of writing.

"I acted as efficiently as possible," Zachariah said. Given the circumstances, he had done everything with the utmost precision. "I had no idea this would happen."

"I would call it reckless," Michael said. "You're lucky we're scrubbing the files from the internet. We shouldn't have done that if you truly worked efficiently. Were you by any chance distracted?"

The question was coming, but Zachariah's heart still skipped a beat. He had indeed been distracted, but that could hardly be considered his fault. Deveraux distracted him. Even in death, he got under Zachariah's skin and made him act recklessly in the destruction of the desktops, the hard drives, all of the electronics Deveraux had in his home.

"Deveraux said many derogatory things. He insulted us, using every swear word in his vocabulary. He knew exactly what to say to get under my skin. I killed him in anger and found it hard to focus afterward. I realize my mistake and will work on improving this weakness." Hopefully, this would make Michael regain his trust. Trust was everything in a precarious relationship like theirs.

"You did not mention the files were spread across the internet. So I assume you didn't know," Michael said, once again pointing out a mistake. This time, however, Zachariah wasn't given a chance to defend himself. Michael wasn't paying attention to him as he opened a drawer and took a single piece of paper out of it. He placed it in such a way that Zachariah could read what was on it.

The older angel took a step closer to take a good look at it. His heart skipped a beat – Zachariah was reading the file Deveraux made on him, the one file he had hoped that would have definitely been destroyed. The picture showed a younger version of him, from the time he was still human. The man in the picture grinned, his eyes filled with joy and his hair brown instead of white. He hated that man, reminded him he was ever less than perfect. This was not Zachariah, but the fool he once was, with his old name printed on it as well.

"Now, Zachariah, tell me why you allowed a Nephilim to live."

Zachariah at first didn't process the question. Then he lifted his head from the file and blinked once. Did Michael just mention a Nephilim?

"I'm sorry?" He must've misheard. There couldn't possibly be a living Nephilim out there. That idea was just as ludicrous as Zachariah or any angel, for that matter, knowingly letting one live.

Michael stood from his chair, his constant stare turned into a glare. Zachariah hadn't misheard.

"There's a Nephilim walking around in the city. He has known ties to you."

Zachariah's face paled. His mind brought up the mistake he made when he was a young angel: the physical relationship with that human girl. It shouldn't have lead to anything, though it was perfectly reasonable that he might have made her pregnant. When he left, it was still too early to see whether she'd gained weight or was having a baby.

"Do you remember my rise to power?" Michael then asked.

Zachariah nodded. "Of course."

"What was the first thing you did for me?"

"I left the woman. I found all the Nephilim and killed them." While Michael went after the older Nephilim – created when an angel has a baby with a human – Zachariah took care of the young ones. Michael himself was a Nephilim, one who was smart enough to foresee that someday another Nephilim may come to challenge him and take his place as leader of the angels. So he killed the Nephilim and propagated the idea that having sex is filthy and they, pure angels, shouldn't be doing it anymore. That worked spectacularly - it forbade an action that was already frowned upon.

"Seven months later, the woman had a son. Were you aware of this?"

Zachariah shook his head. He was both not aware and he couldn't believe he'd become a father again. Another son!

"I did not know, sir, but I… I did have my suspicions when I last saw her," Zachariah answered truthfully. "I never knew until today." He tried to remember Deveraux and what he specifically said. had he mentioned this? Zachariah couldn't recall the exact words. For all he knew, Deveraux had told him and his mind had filtered out that knowledge.

"He's nearing his eighteenth birthday. That means he might be developing his abilities soon." Michael walked around the desk and to Zachariah, who did not move a muscle. "He cannot know he is an angel. If he knows, he cannot be allowed to learn how to control his abilities. It's your problem, so you must set this right – kill the Nephilim."

The command was not unexpected.

Zachariah nodded with confidence. "I will not disappoint you." I will kill the Nephilim. I will restore your trust in me. I will correct the mistake I made nineteen years ago.

That was also his cue to leave. He turned around and walked to the door, ready to end the Nephilim's life."

"Zachariah." He turned to face Michael one last time. "I don't want to see you until he's dead. Is that clear?"

Zachariah nodded again. "Yes, sir."

"You may go now," Michael said. Zachariah obeyed and exited the office. He made his way through the building, into the world, not feeling well enough to fly back to his own desk and office. Somewhere out there, the Nephilim was leading a relatively normal life. Every angel should sense his power, and yet nobody has come across him. The mother must have taken precautions. Finding him was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

This would take a while.


	11. The recording

The angel had been with them for three weeks now.

Even though he had been around for twenty-one days, it still felt strange harboring an angel in their facilities. They gave him shelter, food, activities to keep him busy, but never truly received anything in return. He had healed, but one of those people had fallen ill again with the same symptoms. It was a different infection, Castiel had said before taking away that illness, too. Dean did not trust the situation, did not trust the angel, but calling him out did nothing. Castiel repeated he was young, that's why his healing abilities could still be faulty. Dean did not believe it that bullshit, though the angel spoke with the greatest confidence and conviction.

The angel spent most of his time in the kitchen – Dean and Charlie did not trust him to be around sensitive information. But he couldn't immediately go to the kitchen because people knew they had an angel in the bunker. They didn't want them to figure out Castiel was the angel since many people wouldn't like the angel roaming around semi-freely in the bunker. Even Garth did not trust him enough to take the risk. So, for now, Castiel was condemned to the kitchen with rare excursions to places in and around the bunker, but never to leave without supervision.

They took these measures on the thin assumption that the angel was actually on their side. So far, it worked out. He helped, but only did the bare minimum. He was quiet, reclusive and only tried to engage in conversations with Marv, the biggest blabbermouth in their midst. Garth tried to explain it as someone stuck in old habits who tried to change his way, but whose brainwashing was still strong.

Neither Dean nor Charlie believed this theory. They'd rather send him away – or better yet, kill him to tell Crowley they still can kill angels. However, Garth wouldn't allow it as long as he hadn't shown outright hostility towards them. Castiel was not working against them yet, he may still turn out to be good. Garth agreed that, if Castiel slipped up and refused to give them intel, they would kill him or send him away.

They had asked Marv to have conversations with him, to get some information out of him; the two spent a lot of time together in the kitchen. But Marv never got the information Dean and the council wanted. And because Castiel continued to ask for Marv's previous writings, Marv was not allowed to give him anything the council had not approved.

The three weeks had been quite eventful for Dean, as well. He failed to save a woman from becoming an angel. He had spies inspect the locations Deveraux had sent them, to see how many guards there were. Dean and Charlie decided which location to attack first and only needed to figure out the smaller details, such as the number of men they needed and which weapons they should bring. Whether Castiel had to be involved was never a question.

After those weeks, Dean finally had a moment to himself. He allowed himself to take a break. When he arrived in his room, he immediately let himself fall down on his bed. He reached for the letter on his nightstand, the one he must have read a thousand times. It was a couple of paragraphs long, an easy and light read. His eyes went over the content once more.

He missed Sam. Though it hurt, it was for the best they did not see each other. If the angels knew Dean had a brother who was in a vulnerable spot, they would definitely exploit the situation. At least they could communicate: Sam wrote letters with updates from the hospital about his current mental state. Dean never had that time or luxury, so he recorded messages for Sam to listen to in the privacy of his room – messages which would be destroyed afterward. Messages that did not hold sensitive information, but did give some insights in the day-to-day life in the bunker: Marv's been writing again; Garth said he wanted to leave soon; there's an angel here now that I don't trust; Jo and Donatello can't be saved; everyone misses you.

Everyone missed Sam. More often than not, before Garth joined the council, Sam had been the main voice of reason that conflicted with Dean's impulse decisions.

It was dangerous to have Sam stay in the bunker. They had tried to help him, but it had only gotten worse. Dean finally knew what Bobby must have felt when he saw John Winchester for the last time, his mind warped by an authoritarian regime and his behavior matching the newly instilled ideas. Bobby hadn't wanted to see his friend as an enemy or even a threat, but he had no choice. Dean's heart broke seeing Sam floating between violent beyond reason and sane, begging for someone to stop him.

The hospital downtown was the best option, away from the stress of the bunker. At least someone watched him all the time and provided the care he needed. At least he could now focus on his problem, with the help of the hospital staff. And every two weeks, a random visitor would bring him the latest news in the form of a cassette.

Dean placed the letter back on his nightstand and stood up. He walked to the desk, sat down on the chair and recorded his newest message to Sam. It was not as time-consuming, frustration-inducing and tedious as writing it down would have been. When he finished, he took the cassette out of the recording device. Another benefit to this method was that the angel probably didn't have the right device to play this, but Sam did. He would be able to listen to the message after sending his visitor away with his newest letter to his older brother.

Dean placed the cassette in an envelope and sealed it. Then, he stepped outside of his room and stopped the first person he came across. It was a woman with an eye patch. Luckily, she was willing to go to the hospital and deliver the envelope to room 717. He handed her the envelope and wished her good luck.

The past twenty minutes were all the break that Dean had allowed himself. There was more work to do. He returned to the situation room, where he would find something useful to do. On his way there, his mind was occupied with the various ways their angel could break out and kill everyone in the bunker. He came up with many different scenarios, even if some were incredulous if the angel hadn't lied about how long he's been an angel. Dean did not believe him.

When he arrived in the meeting, his attention was drawn to the screen mounted on the wall. It usually broadcast the news, and during meetings might project one of the computer screens to everyone. Today, the local news channel was broadcasting breaking news from downtown. Behind the journalist, in a street with only terraced houses, three neighboring houses were on fire. Orange flames and heavy, dark smoke escaped into the blue sky. On both sides of the extended fires, houses that were previously untouched were fuming, too. The door of the burning house on the right opened and a woman stumbled out, coughing wildly and doubling over. The camera briefly zoomed in on her as people living across the street helped her get away from the house. The journalist tried to describe the scene behind her to the best of her abilities, adding to this that some people may still be inside.

In most cases, a fire starts in one house and then spreads to neighboring houses, growing from a center. According to witnesses, the house on the right caught fire, followed immediately by two houses on the left. The journalist already speculated the fire might have been lit because of the unusual pattern.

Dean believed the journalist's theory. It was extremely unlikely this would happen naturally in a world where angels exist. Even if one of them had started without angel interference, due to the speed with which they appeared, an angel must have started the other two. The extreme intensity of the fire, that had supposedly just started, was also highly unusual. Unless something inside had exploded, there could not be such intense flames in an instance.

Angels, or one particular angel, had set it ablaze. Dean wanted to know why.

But first, those people needed all the help they could get.

Dean recognized the street – it was not far away from where one of the bunker's entrances was located. he could easily mobilize a team to help the victims until firefighters and medics could arrive. It was the least he could do. The resistance's main purpose was combatting the angel, but they also should help people in need and did so whenever they could.

Dean had no trouble assembling a team of willing volunteers. These people would join him in going to that street and doing whatever they could to help these people.

An idea popped into this mind. An angel most definitely had lit the fire. They had an angel amongst them, one who may still be young enough not to be indifferent about human life (if he hadn't lied about his age).

Maybe, this once, he would willingly bring Castiel to a mission.


	12. Frontline

Castiel had not thought he was going to last even a week, but he was glad to have been proven otherwise. He spent most of his time in the kitchen and while Marv did not want to give him what he'd written on the resistance, Castiel was patient enough to wait for the moment Marv was finally willing to give up those papers, though someone was probably prohibiting him from sharing his writings with Castiel.

Three weeks after his arrival he still had no concrete information to give to Zachariah. That did not matter, though, for he also had no means of communication said non-existent information to his superiors. Every day, he hoped he'd develop his angel radio – and was frustrated in the evening when it hadn't happened yet – so that he could send out the information, once the opportunity to gain some presented himself.

Today was a little different than other days. He could not place what was going on today, but he felt like something big was about to happen. From the moment he was awake, he sat on his bed in his cell and waited for Dean to come into the room and to escort him to the next location where he'd be working – probably the kitchen again. His usual chore of peeling potatoes was awaiting him there. Whatever special or strange he believed would happen, would show itself through the day.

At least he'd be able to influence Marv again. It was time for Castiel to become more talkative, to give Marv a good reason to trust him more. Maybe that would do the trick. Maybe with this approach, his time here would be useful.

The door was unlocked, and Castiel turned his head in anticipation of Bobby. But Bobby didn't come today. Instead, the young leader Dean came over. While it was not unusual to see Dean around in this resistance building, he normally wouldn't bother bringing Castiel to his destination in the morning. Each time Castiel did see him, there was a glare on his face. If Castiel wasn't on a mission, he would glare at Dean the same way.

But today, there was not a hint of that glare in Dean's eyes. Today, he did not focus on his hatred towards the angel. That feeling Castiel had earlier returned. He was going to find out what was going on, and it might require him to go with one of the leaders who hated him.

"You're coming with me today," Dean said. He briefly disappeared from the door frame while Castiel stood up. Dean shot Castiel a frustrated look when the angel did not follow him as quickly as he had wanted it. "Now!"

Castiel hurried his pace and followed Dean through the corridors. Dean was more agitated, but Castiel was sure he wasn't the cause. Something else had his full attention, and Castiel was intrigued.

"Where are we going?" Castiel asked.

"We are going to help some people in the city. A fire's burning."

Castiel wondered about the details, but he did not ask. He did imagine what he would find – a charred house, only fuming, with bodies still inside. He pictured a detached home, with spectators not going further than the white picket fence. He did not know where this image came from, but he now expected to see this when they arrived.

Castiel followed Dean to the garage, into one of the vans. Castiel sat in the back with other people, while Dean was going to drive. The other people in the van did not know him and did not attempt to talk to him. So to pass the time, Castiel pictured the burning house and thought of everything he could do to send a message to angel HQ.

* * *

The road was bumpy, but luckily the drive was quick. Castiel figured the location of the fire wasn't too far away from where the bunker was located – if he spotted something that stood out, he might figure out where the resistance had its base.

The van came to a halt and Castiel, who sat by the door, waited for Dean's signal that they had arrived. When that came, Castiel quickly exited the van while the others were calmer and took their time.

The police had closed off the street on both sides, only allowing firefighters through as well as the ambulance, when it would arrive. / Inside the perimeter, the people living in the neighborhood were either evacuated or refused to be evacuated so that they could help those affected by the fires, comforting those coming out of the flaming buildings and dousing the fires by throwing buckets of water through the shattered windows. If the angels hadn't underfunded the firefighters, help would have already been here. all people living here would have been evacuated. But through necessity and compassion, humans were putting their life on the line for other humans. That was the first time Castiel witnessed such a display of bravery.

By now, the others were exiting the vans and the group slowly made their way to the two police officers blocking the way. They had their arms crossed and glared at the group that had just arrived. They truly were not happy more people arrived at the scene. Dean made his way to the front of the group.

"Officers," Dean said, "We came to help. You need to let us through."

The police officers were in no way connected to the resistance. They did not know Dean or recognized him. They were only doing their work and while their colleagues failed to evacuate some citizens from their houses while simultaneously trying to help those people trapped inside. The two officers knew they couldn't allow anyone else to cross the line to go inside, to minimize the number of casualties there might be. They were not going to let the resistance members through easily, so as not to put too high a strain on the police officers that tried to do their job inside of the perimeter.

Castiel decided to help them out and he walked towards the police officers. Once he came to the forefront of the group, he shot the officers his nastiest glare, while making himself look big.

"Let us through." He stared at them without blinking – intimidation was part of the angel job description. Under his gaze, the officers became uncomfortable. Seconds later, they realized Castiel was an angel and they allowed the group to enter the perimeter. Castiel nodded once at them and, along with the group, they walked into the perimeter.

Dean immediately walked by his side. "Good move," he grunted.

While it might be a compliment, Castiel did not interpret it as one. He was certain Dean did not intend it to be a compliment, either.

The closer they came to the fire, the more they became aware of the scope. Castiel stopped and stared. Three neighboring terraced houses were ablaze, and one to the left was fuming as well. Black smoke rose to the skies, its stench finding a way to their nose. And all around him, people were never sitting quietly. They ran around with buckets, wet cloth pressed against their noses and mouths. Some sat on the pavement and couched with someone by their side, making sure they were okay. The police tried desperately to keep the situation under control, but there was little they could do when the firefighters hadn't arrived and the inhabitants of the street refused to leave a member of their community behind. Every one of those inhabitants walking about was struck by the fire, whether they had inhaled smoke, were unwell because of the heat or because something else had happened.

For a human, this must be confrontational and hard. Castiel experienced the same, though his superior senses enhanced everything. The flames were bright and warm, too hot to enter the building and even to come close. Through the crackling of the flames, Castiel could hear there were still people inside. They coughed and shouted for help, their voices nearly drowned by the roar of the flames. While the humans could hardly hear those trapped inside, they'd be damned if they didn't shout at them, telling them help was on the way.

Then there was this strong presence Castiel sensed in the middle house. It was something he had not felt in a while, for the aura he sensed was one of angel nature. The only anomaly about this was how unusually strong it was.

"What happened?" Castiel asked. Dean glanced at him before answering.

"Nobody knows," Dean said. "I'm guessing angels did it."

Angels did this. He shouldn't be surprised. Whenever there was a fire, it was usually the angels that lit it. It was a preferred method to get rid of people they did not like, to kill resistance members or to literally burn ties to their past. Castiel had done it, too, if he wasn't mistaken.

He thought he had no problem with it. But he never heard about the fires that the angels started because nobody told him – because he didn't need to know. Standing at the scene, he shouldn't feel bad because these people probably deserved it! And somehow, the images before him, the burning houses and the desperate yet hopeful people trying their hardest, elicited some emotion inside of him.

This was right – but it shouldn't be. The two ideas clashed inside his mind.

"Get used to it," Dean said. "Welcome to reality."

He and the others rushed to the buildings and victims to provide first aid, to help evacuate the not-so-immediate surroundings, to try to save the people who were still inside the flames. Sirens alerted them help was on the way, but they sounded distant and it might arrive later rather than sooner. They should not stop doing whatever they were doing and wait for the firefighters or ambulance to arrive. They could not afford to stop now.

Castiel stared at the buildings, trying to make sense of the situation.

For some reason, it was a punch to the gut. Angels might have done this.

He was taught to be more naïve in his beliefs. He was taught to never question authority, that humans were generally wrong about anything. He was told that he was an angel, fulfilling his divine purpose. Without protection, humankind suffered; they fear the power and have forgotten the angel's importance to them. They foolishly claim angels are evil because society has been echoing the same lies over and over again. They want to be free from the one thing that protects them from dangers untold. Be patient – you will save them from their foolish beliefs one day.

The humans were to be protected… then why did an angel go out and set a fire? Why would an angel intentionally hurt or kill a person that still had a purpose?

Because, as angels grow stronger and unlock powerful abilities Castiel has yet to have access to, they teach themselves to love their powers and that the humans are right to fear them. They decide about life and death and don't care what happens to humans. To save them they either needed to be converted or, if they stood in the way, killed. These ideologies are then passed on to their younger counterparts through actions rather than active teachings. They grow into cruel tyrants and use the same vocabulary to indoctrinate the young angels again, perpetuating the cycle.

Castiel believed humans were stupid most of the time, but the harsh ideas hadn't yet been passed on to him. Humans mattered because they produce angels – their deaths are pointless if they hadn't fulfilled this purpose. Their deaths felt like a betrayal from his superiors.

Castiel approaching the flaming house on the right, from which he heard a scream for help. Nobody stopped as he came closer to the house, as the heat increased. While Dean and others watched him, he took one last breath of fresh air before pressing the sleeve of his coat to his mouth and nose and he entered the building.

He could not see much. The world was dark and orange. Each additional breath burned his throat and lungs and the smoke made his eyes water. The heat was almost unbearable and yet, he did not stop. He was already inside; he shouldn't turn back now. It might give a bad impression to the people whose trust he had to gain. But more importantly, he had to save this person. An angel caused this person pain, and another angel would save them. Even if it killed Castiel.

The sounds lead him across the hall, to the first floor. The wood beneath his feet creaked and more than once, he thought he'd sink through the stairs with each step. He barely made it to the first floor when the stairs finally gave way. Castiel did not notice it – his mind was on the person, not the stairs he'd climbed.

The victim was an older man who had retreated to his bedroom and became too afraid to leave the relative safety of his now also fuming bedroom. Castiel approached him and offered to support him, to get him out. The man nodded, more than grateful someone had come to rescue him from the flames. Castiel placed the man's arm over his shoulder. With one hand, he held the man's arm in place. With the other, he supported the man and held him tight, so that they would not be separated and so that Castiel could still carry him out of the house.

But the stairs were gone. Jumping off the edge was not an option. Within the situation, it was already a miracle Castiel had found the man, but it seemed their journey ended there and then.

Castiel and the man he was trying to save were coughing louder and louder. The smoke, the heat, the flames, they were all too much. Castiel couldn't stay in the heat for much longer – as for the man, the coughing had stopped and he had collapsed, leaving Castiel as his only hope.

Castiel closed his eyes. He couldn't take this much longer.

He wanted to go outside.

He needed to go outside.

He had to go outside. Right now.

And then he breathed in the fresh air and coughed some more. When he opened his eyes, he was standing on the street, the resistance guys that had come along with Dean staring at him with wide eyes. And though he hadn't been aware of it, Castiel knew what happened.

He'd flown for the first time.

Castiel handed the man to the medical team that had just arrived. He then continued to the other side of the wall and leaned against the wall, sitting down and taking a rest. His entire body was sore and hot, his clothes ruined. Some medics came to him, and though he did not want them to waste their time on him – he could heal himself – he did not have the strength left to push them away.

One medic asked him to take off his coat. Castiel listened, not even having the energy to refuse taking orders from humans. His coat was destroyed; the fabric had been eaten away by the flames, it left holes or black patches. At a glance, Castiel knew this was not salvageable. The medic took it out of his hands and placed it aside so he could treat the angel. They gave him some ointments and pills he could not identify and though his skin still felt like he was on fire, it eased the pain a little.

The medics stepped away from him afterward and left him in peace. They moved on to other victims who had been affected by the fire one way or another. In the meantime, Castiel remained seated on the sidewalk and allowed his body to heal itself. Though he healed faster than the average human, the wounds would not vanish immediately. He chose not to focus on the wounds or the healing process; it would happen automatically – instead, he focused on the victims that were treated and the many attempts of the resistance and volunteers to douse the fire until the firefighters came.

And they did come. At long last, the firefighters arrived on the scene and did their jobs. The resistance couldn't stop helping though, and they as well as Dean had to be sidelined by the police and firefighters alike to stop risking their lives. Dean accepted a bottle of water and sat down close to Castiel, who resisted the urge to inch away from him despite there being enough space between them already.

"You did a good job, saving that man," Dean said. He meant it, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

"He needed help," Castiel said. "So I helped."

"And that's great," Dean continued. "I'm just wondering… you didn't tell us you could fly."

Castiel sighed. Of course that was what Dean would be thinking about.

"It was the first time," Castiel answered truthfully.

"The first time you flew, ever?"

"Yes. If it didn't happen, I'd have burned inside that house and I wouldn't have been able to save that man."

Dean did not immediately respond or ask another question. He opened the bottle of water and took some sips. He poured a little over his hands, too, so he could clean them from the soot that clung to them.

"So," Dean then continued the conversation. "You can fly now? All of a sudden?"

"It was an instinctive reaction," Castiel answered dully. "I wanted to get out of the house, and it happened." And it was wonderful to know he could do it know. He always believed the first time would happen in a controlled environment, with instructions given as to how-to. This was not the set-up nor the environment he had in mind – the thought that his first flight would be an accident never occurred to him. And training his new skill would be difficult to do without raising questions. He was, in every sense of the word, going to have to wing it and hope he would learn to do it as more accidents happened.

Dean did not seem satisfied with the answer.

"You can't just fly out of your cell, then?"

Castiel firmly shook his head once. "No."

Dean remained silent after this. They looked ahead of them, watching the firefighters douse the devastating fires that have gone on long enough.

* * *

It took them hours to douse the fires. The victims had all been brought to the local hospital and the police officers were tying up loose ends. Castiel had sufficiently healed and the resistance members were starting to look forward to their dinners. It was about time that they were going home.

But Castiel couldn't leave yet. He needed to know something. He needed to take the look inside the middle house.

Though it was weaker, he still felt a certain draw to that house. The presence, the sense that there might have been an angel inside the middle house, still lingered inside. The draw was there, and he suspected this might have been the reason the houses burned – though he needed to be sure.

He stood from the sidewalk and walked to the officers that sealed the houses. They were smart enough to suspect foul play themselves and wanted to do their own investigation, even if they never would be able to catch the culprit. One of them caught him coming closer and stared. The three officers all stared at him when Castiel stood in front of them.

"I am going to take a look in the middle house," Castiel told the officers.

And did not go past them. He could, he should just do it, but his feet wouldn't move. But he didn't. Why wait for the OK of the officers?

Because without the trench coat, they had not immediately recognized him as the angel. But they recognized his voice and believed they had to choice but to allow Castiel to have a look around the house. While his heroic action hadn't slipped their minds, they were still wary of him. after all, he was still an angel.

In the end, Castiel had waited only ten seconds before he could move again and he walked past them. Dean, who had seen the entire thing happen, followed it up with an "I'm with him" when he passed the officers, too, to keep an eye on Castiel. Like the officers, he was still wary and suspicious and he may be looking for a private space to fly away.

Castiel entered the house and walked into the living room. The angel grace, the strong presence he felt through the flames, was weak and dying. The angel inside must have passed away, but Castiel still needed to find where he lay. Its grace must have been strong enough to linger as long as it did.

Castiel stopped in the exact middle of the living room. Right where he stopped, the trail of angel energy stopped.

On the spot, Castiel knelt. The angel inside had been killed. The fire must have been lit, but an angel would never kill another angel like this. normally, the right way to dispose of an angel would be with an angel blade. This fire was a cover-up for the murder. It had to be. Someone tried to hide the murder.

But a murder would never be hidden. This, as well as the fact that Castiel could still sense the angel grace around the house, especially in this room, made him realize no ordinary angel burned in this house.

"What are you looking for?" Dean asked out loud, warily watching the angel crouched in the middle of the living room. Castiel stood up again, but he did not turn his head.

"An angel set the fire."

"Yeah, no shit."

"It was a cover-up, not an attack," Castiel specified. "Whoever set the fire, killed this Nephilim."


	13. Change

Even though the fire had claimed the lives of just two people – one of whom was the Nephilim – and the other inhabitants were only wounded, the experience had changed something inside of Castiel.

It felt like a betrayal, but much worse. What they had taught him changed him on a personal level, but their actions contradicted their teachings.

The fire… it had to be a fire, didn't it? The common way to get rid of something from the past, the common way to say goodbye to the human and say hello to being an angel in heart and soul. The fire reminded him of a time when he wasn't an angel yet. He might have been compassionate and helpful and kind. He remembered a kinship with the humans, not unlike the one he felt with the angels.

The angels changed him on a personal level. They took his old life, threw it away and copy-pasted a caricature into his empty hull. And they lied; they said it was inevitable, that the changes came from within himself, but their teachings had shaped the new him.

How much had they changed? How much could he trust them still?

In that moment, he did not feel like an angel. He regained the sense that he once was only human. He and the man burned, breathed smoke and felt its consequences. Angels were only superior in superhuman skills, but not more. Take that away, and humans and angels were the same. Why should he look down on them?

He once was a person with a life, a person who carried the gene and had no choice but to be reprogrammed to fit angel standards. This retroactively made him feel uneasy.

He never thought it possible he would be thinking like this.

He was Falling… and though he shook his head, he did not feel inclined to stop it.

It excited and scared him.

After the fire, Castiel was no longer up to the task of seeking out information he promised to deliver to his kind. They must still be waiting for an answer. If they had followed the news – which they don't – they'd know he had flown out of the building. They were patient, but Castiel imagined their patience running out, even with a long-term mission like this one.

And what if they got the information, if Castiel was granted access to it? They would only use the intel to affirm authority, to kill everyone in the bunker. While he only knew a handful of people, he knew everyone tried to make this world more survivable. They helped people in need, even if no angels were involved; the same could not be said about the angels with their kind.

Castiel took a deep breath. No more half-hearted healings. No more working slowly or pretending to misunderstand what they wanted from him. He should be cooperative, should not work against them any longer.

And while he helped, he'd better try to shake off any suspicions the resistance might have of him.

* * *

The next time he would help Kevin, Castiel sat down at the tablet to help with the transcription of the tablet. Kevin had continued both the translations and the transcription, which could not have been too easy. Kevin had been tired lately and, as not to overwork himself, he asked for Castiel to take over part of the workload, which included small translations based on previous transcriptions.

Castiel obliged.

"I have lied," Castiel said after half an hour of work, when he and Kevin were alone. "I did not know what to expect from the tablet. I was afraid of what it could say. At the time, I was still wary of you and I stalled."

"We noticed," Kevin responded truthfully. At least, Castiel hoped he was honest.

"I can easily transcribe this," Castiel continued. "I cannot translate the text, but I'll transcribe it in full and help you with the translation afterward."

Kevin accepted Castiel's plan and they continued their work. Castiel worked two hours straight to transcribe one of the columns of the tablet. Then he took a break from transcribing and worked to translate pieces of the text that Kevin previously could not decipher. He was not particularly helpful in that aspect, because he did not know the language. He did figure out one word Kevin thought to be a verb was actually a noun, and he made the translation of the sentences in which this word occurred smoother. At the end of his shift, Kevin was grateful for Castiel's help and honestly, and Castiel returned to the kitchen.

Before he arrived there, he asked to stop at Charlie's work room to deliver a piece of paper. It was a list with the names he remembered from his angel initiation – the human names of the angels who graduated alongside him. He had thought he wouldn't have remembered those names, but when he put his mind to it, he remembered more names than he realized. While the angels may not be saved anymore, but their blood relatives could at least be saved from becoming angels, too. He was not allowed to stay to see Charlie's reaction.

In the kitchen, he did not ask Marv about what he'd written on the resistance. This surprised Marv – they still talked about how he chose what to write down and what to discard – but he did not think too much about it. He believed Castiel had hard 'no' enough times to have stopped asking.

Castiel seemed to be more at ease. He was not looking around suspiciously and did not look at the people in the kitchen as if they were his enemies. He sat down, relaxed, peeling the potatoes and attempting to make conversation with Marv. The middle-aged man appreciated the effort.

At the end of the day, Castiel returned to his cell. He sat on the bed and as he reflected on the surprisingly rewarding way, he wondered what the next day would bring.

* * *

Dean was in the situation room, just arriving from Charlie's work space. They had been trying to find out the true identity of the Nephilim for two days, but they had not made any substantial progress. Charlie had chosen to keep at it, because she also had some other work as well. Dean did not manage to bring her to the situation room for a small break, to drink some coffee – or beer, whatever he found first – and then jump back into work. He was lucky Bobby and the council ran this organization efficiently enough for Dean to focus on identifying this one Nephilim.

He did not intend to stay for too long. But when Garth walked into the room and noticed Dean, he knew it would take a while before he could return to work. Dean wanted to talk to him and maybe Garth wanted to say something himself, too.

"How are you doing?" Dean asked the man who'd become his friend.

"I'm feeling better," Garth responded, a smile on his face. Garth did not need much to smile and even though he was dealing with a difficult home situation at the moment, it did not bring him down. Despite the work, despite his troubles, he still smiled.

"Thanks for sticking around a little longer," Dean said. "I know it can't have been easy—"

"I love helping you guys," Garth interrupted him. "It wasn't as difficult as you imagine. Bess didn't like it, but she understood."

Bess is Garth's wife and the mother of his daughter. Dean had never met them in person, but if he were to believe Garth, they were wonderful people – Dean did not doubt this. Garth decided to leave the resistance so he could build a risk-free life with them, but he stayed around in the resistance base longer than planned.

Dean understood why Bess wasn't happy with the situation. She'd rather see her husband by her side, and even though they may never live completely risk-free, Garth leaving the resistance would decrease the chance at being found out and killed."

"How is she doing?"

"She's great." Garth's face lit up as he spoke. "The three of us are good. Thanks to you."

Dean shook his head. "C'mon, it wasn't just me. Everyone helped." He could not take credit for saving Garth from imminent death – it had been a team effort.

"You killed the angel that was going to kill me," Garth said. "We owe you. I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything," Dean responded. If Garth did owe Dean or the resistance something, he has more than made up for it with all the hours he spent helping them. "If anything, I owe you for staying."

"That's fine," Garth said. With those words, men took a sip of their hot coffee. Dean did not know much Garth needed it, but Dean was happy with this hot beverage. Once he'd emptied the cup, he'd be ready to go back to work.

"I noticed the angel has been more active," Garth said.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, Castiel's doing okay. He's much more cooperative now." Involving him in the rescue mission must have done miracles when it came to his behavior. He's been helping out more the past few days and the work he did was more productive. "I wouldn't say he's completely turned his back on his kind yet, but he may be moving in the right direction."

"It's not just starting," Garth commented. "He's getting halfway there."

Dean shrugged. "I wouldn't trust him with sensitive information."

"Yet or at all?" Garth wondered, but both he and Dean knew the answer. If it were up to Dean, he would not trust the angel at all with any sensitive information. But the angel was shaping up to be helpful, and maybe even more than that. In the future, near or far, he might have to trust Castiel with something that he would not hand the angel at the moment.

"If he wanted to leave the kitchen, he would've excused himself already," Garth noted. "He didn't leave his post to spy or to try and gather intel." And if he had tried to sneak around, people certainly would have noticed.

"He's still talking to Marv, though," Dean countered.

"Has he asked for information lately?" Garth brought his cup to his lips for another sip.

Dean shook his head. "Not since we found that Nephilim in the ashes."

"The Nephilim." The tone of the conversation was about to shift. Garth was interested, even though he wasn't at all involved. "Do you have a name yet?"

"Nope," Dean responded. If only it was easy to identify him. "All those homes are rented out by the same guy and he doesn't really keep records of who's renting which house. There also wasn't enough left of him to do a DNA test." If he wanted to know who the Nephilim was, the best way would be to go door to door and ask neighbors who lived in those houses. Those efforts had not yet been fruitful – in this neighborhood, people did not really know one another or talked often.

"So it's not going well," Garth concluded. Dean nodded; that was spot on.

"Charlie's on it, too." She wouldn't easily leave the room without having any results. Knowing her, she might work herself into the ground until she knew who the Nephilim was.

"Okay," Garth said. This was followed by a few seconds of silence. "Maybe we should test him."

"I wouldn't do that," Dean immediately responded. In his mind, Castiel only projected that he was genuinely willing to help out. Once trusted, he could do whatever he wanted with the information he had been trusted with. Dean did not want to take that risk, even with a test.

"You'd know where his allegiance lies," Garth continued. "It could give you a clue how far he is willing to go. How easily he might betray us or not. It could be anything, if you give him false information."

"We'll see," Dean said and he took one last sip from his coffee. "I gotta go. See you around, Garth."

"See you around," Garth responded. Dean left the situation room, mulling over Garth's words and ideas in his mind. In the long run, it would solve many problems if he knew where the angel's loyalties were. It ought to be tested someway, by giving him the opportunity to run back to his angel friends, or even to grab 'sensitive information' that was not going to compromise the resistance.

Not many scenarios came to mind. He knew where he wanted to do it, what he wanted to do. The scenario Dean had in mind was risky to a degree, but it would be the perfect opportunity to see what Castiel would do when he was given some freedom.

The plan consisted of having Castiel deliver a package in a public place. There would be resistance members who Castiel hasn't met spread across this space, to keep an eye on the angel. On top of that, they could hack into the security camera so they could keep an eye on him, even when the resistance members weren't around. If angels came up to him and he talked, it would be noticed. If he took a wrong turn, they would notice and would believe he'd return to angel headquarters or someplace else. They would see if he opened the package. Either way, if Castiel followed the instructions, Dean would know that Castiel was legitimately trying to help them out.

But if he deviated or betrayed the resistance in the meantime, nothing could protect him from the wrath of the resistance. His betrayal would likely result in his death.


	14. Hospital

Three days after the plan first had been made, Castiel was not given much time to even eat breakfast. Some guys escorted him to the garage and made him sit in the back of one of the resistance’s vans, so he would not see where they were going. Dean was already in the van, waiting for him, a small briefcase in his hands. Castiel sat opposite him and they did not look at one another as the van drove off.

“We are going to a public building,” Dean said. He handed Castiel the briefcase. It had a lock Castiel did not have the key for, but which he could easily snap off with his superhuman strength. “Your job is to walk into the building and hand the briefcase to the person waiting in room 717. He will give you an envelope in return. After the exchange, you return to us and hand me the envelope. Understood?”

Castiel nodded once. It was not immensely complicated – deliver the briefcase to room 717.

“Is this a test?” He asked. Dean’s neutral facial expression did not give away the answer. He said nothing in response and their conversation ended then and there. It gave Castiel time to speculate over the nature of his solo mission.

After a slightly longer drive than Castiel had expected, the van stopped. Dean motioned with his head to the doors. The meaning was not lost on the angel. He took the briefcase and stepped out of the van.

The first thing he did was to note the direct environment. The van had parked next to a busy street, opposite the city’s hospital. There was constant traffic around the building and inside. Many people could keep an eye on him, but he could get lost in a crow. This place offered Castiel many opportunities to escape.

With the briefcase in hand, Castiel crossed the busy street and walked into the hospital. The lobby was bustling; people came in and left the hospital again. If someone stood still, they were in the waiting room, standing in line at the reception desk or calling someone from the lobby. Castiel decided to join the line at the reception. Maybe one of the receptionists could help him find room 717.

He glanced around. It seemed everyone was staring at him like everyone knew and judged him. Without the trench coat, he felt naked in the public eye. It had become a shield for him and irreplaceable. Every noise louder than the hospital murmurs was loud and suspicious. If there were angels, Castiel did not see them, but they must have seen him. If they knew he was here, they would try to make contact. He had no idea whether he was going to talk to them or give them the information they expected from him.

At long last, he stood at the desk and a plump, pretty brunette was ready to help him.

“Hi, I’m here to deliver a package to room 717.” He briefly lifted the case so the receptionist could see it. If the resistance regularly brought packages like these to this specific room, the receptionists would probably know about it and anticipate it.

And they did. The receptionist glanced at the briefcase and nodded.

“Follow me,” she said. She stepped away from the desk and before any visitors could complain, one of her colleagues took over from her. Afterward, Castiel followed the woman through the hallway of the largest hospital in the city.

The walk brought him to the seventh floor of the building, to room seventeen. From what Castiel gathered, this was the hospital wing where people stayed when they were not in their right mind. He tried his best not to be judgmental, but he still could not help his intrusive thoughts that berated him for even walking among humans.

They stood before room 717. The receptionist didn’t reach for the knob or even went for the door. It was up to Castiel to do this. Castiel glanced at her for one moment. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the crazy he might find inside, and he opened the door.

It was calm inside and nothing there suggested the person living in the room was out of his mind. That, or the person was having a good day. The room only held a bed, a small desk, two chairs, an older TV attached to the wall and some sort of cassette player on the desk. This belonged to a young man wearing a hospital gown. He looked exhausted, but he hadn’t given up yet. It did not look like he had to be held here against his will. He had a calm demeanor and if he was struggling with something inside, Castiel did not notice.

Just like he felt the Nephilim’s presence in the fire, Castiel felt the power surging inside the young man. Unlike the purity of the Nephilim, this was volatile and dangerous and made Castiel anxious. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt. The power could lash out at any time, forcing the young man before him to do something he doesn’t want to.

No wonder he stayed at the hospital.

The young man stared at Castiel, glancing at him in distrust and a half-frown on his face. Not intending to stay any longer than he needed, Castiel offered him the briefcase.

“Dean sent me,” Castiel said. It did ease the young man a little. He took the briefcase and sat down on his bed. He grabbed a key from under his pillow and opened the briefcase’s locks. Once it was opened, Castiel saw its content: a single cassette. The young man stood up and reached inside the dresser standing next to his bed. He took a sealed envelope and placed it inside the briefcase. He locked it again and handed the suitcase back to Castiel.

“You should give this back,” the young man said. He had a pleasant voice, but Castiel could not help but notice the underlying pain. After he had handed back the briefcase, he flinched ever so slightly at random. It was strange, but nothing out of the ordinary in this context. When this happened, the energy inside the young man spiked.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asked. The young man nodded.

“I’m fine, I’m used to it,” was the truthful answer. Castiel did not respond, could only wonder what happened to him that made him act like this. Either way, this was unlike anything Castiel had ever seen. No angel could make a human go insane or mess with their minds too much. None of their skills could make humans crazy, unless old-fashioned torture was involved.

“You’re an angel, right?” the young man blurted out. For a few moments, Castiel was silent. If he were to respond, he would have to mind his wording. The young man was sane enough to send Dean a report.

“Yes, I… I was,” Castiel eventually said. The young man nodded once. If he wanted to answer, he took his time. He was also distracted by something that Cas didn’t see, something inside his head. He did not flinch, but he looked away and tried to ignore whatever had caught his attention. Castiel still did not ask about it, even as that volatile angel power spiked again for a couple of moments. How did nobody sense him before?

Finally, the young man turned his attention to Castiel again. He stared at the angel, making Castiel uncomfortable.

“Does Dean trust you?”

“I don’t think he would’ve sent me here if he didn’t trust me to a certain degree,” Castiel answered, well aware of the opportunities this public space provided. Still, Castiel wasn’t going to walk away and if the angels wanted to contact him, they had to come to him. He still didn’t have access to this angel radio and had only flown this one time, so him reaching to them was not very plausible.

“Good luck,” the young man said. “They don’t provide an easy life, but they do a lot of good.”

Castiel nodded. “Thank you.”

He walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. The receptionist – Meg, it said on her nametag – had waited in the hallways and now leaned against the wall, her arms folded. She stared curiously at Castiel.

“How did it go?” she asked him as they walked down the hallway.

“I think it went well,” Castiel answered. He did not comment on any thoughts he had visiting this person, but this visit had been an unusual one and she must know that too. Who was he? What were he and Dean sharing with one another? He must be in the resistance, but why meet up in the hospital? What was he; he wasn’t a Nephilim, but not a full-fledged angel either. He floated somewhere in between and Castiel did not like that uncertainty.

Meg did not escort him all the way back to the lobby. About halfway down the road, she bade him farewell and went back to the staff room; her shift had just ended. With the briefcase, now with the letter, he remembered the way back and found himself back in the lobby. It was just as busy and noisy, but they weren’t the same people as before. They were other sets of people, waiting in line, drinking coffee, calling loved ones. And at the side, near the coffee booth, stood two angels that stared at him.

Castiel recognized them; he had worked alongside them a couple of times and concluded he was only disrupting their efficient teamwork. Gadreel and Uriel, no doubt sent by Zachariah. He must have seen the footage, or someone had seen him. Either way, this was the perfect opportunity to allow Castiel to give them intel, one they could not let go to waste.

Castiel ignored them and walked right to the main entrance, as to avoid having to speak to the angels. But they had their eyes on him and moved closer towards him. Castiel tightened his grip on the briefcase, expecting them to confiscate it. So long as Castiel lived, they wouldn’t get it.

How was it possible that a month ago, maybe less than a month ago, he was working together with them? How that come that now, he no longer wanted to speak with them?

“I can’t talk,” Castiel said as soon as they were in earshot, discretely glancing around him. There probably were resistance members among the crows, keeping an eye on him. The perfect alibi.

“Don’t you have some time to spare?” Gadreel asked as Castiel passed them, continuing in the same pace as before.

“They are watching me.” Castiel responded without turning his head and he headed for the exit. Whether Gadreel and Uriel flew away or followed him, Castiel did not know. He did not care about them, he needed to get back to the van and hand the briefcase back to Dean.

They didn’t understand it yet. If they believed him, that was great. It meant they would try to contact him again, but they still trusted him. That was good, in case that Castiel needed to call on them to set a possible trap. In case a double-agent situation occurs. So that in the end, humanity may rebuild. They would be good.

They. Because Cas no longer human and no longer considered himself an angel, which gave him every right to be discarded when this fight was done. He’s not on either side, but rather his own, and he chose another side to work together with.

He entered the back of the van again. Dean was still waiting and took the briefcase from him. And on the way home, Cas told Dean about Gadreel and Uriel and how they might try to follow him back. This made their trip home five times longer than the journey to the hospital was.

So long as it kept the resistance base a secret, Cas was fine with it.


	15. Trustworthy

Dean was reading Sam's letter into his room. Nothing had changed since their last correspondence. Sam was still seeing the same guy that tormented him since he, Ellen, Jo and Cole went on that mission. He was getting better at ignoring it, but he could not control that guy, that little devil that kept him awake at night and bullied him to his breaking point. Sam described his behavior 'as if he is his own person; I cannot make him go away unless he wants to leave, but he'll just as easily return when he's bored. He's often bored'.

Only in two weeks' time, when another member of the resistance would visit Sam to exchange cassettes and letters, would dean know what Sam thought of Castiel. Dean knew he would make a judgment of his own before revising his point of view when Sam's judgment came to him. But first, he needed to talk to Castiel and interrogate him about the angels in the hospital.

A knock on the door brought him out of his thoughts. He folded the letter, hid it under the pillow and then exited his room. Outside waited Garth, who was calm as usual.

"Hi, Garth," Dean said.

"Hi," Garth said, a solemn look on his face. "We need to talk." There was not even a hint of a smile on his face and Dean knew something had to be seriously wrong.

"Is everything all right?" He asked.

Garth nodded. "Yeah, everything's fine. It's just…" he sighed and folded his arm. "I'm staying two weeks, then I'm leaving."

Really? That was what Garth needed to discuss with him?

"Yeah, we talked about that," Dean responded. "You're leaving in two weeks, it's nothing new."

"I know, I know," Garth said, "but I've been saying 'one more month' and 'two more weeks' too often. I'm not extending that period any longer. Not even an emergency will keep me away from my family any longer than I have to. You may need me, but they need me more." He seemed to be glad to have gotten this off of his chest.

"So why are you staying two more weeks if you want to go home?" Dean asked. He wouldn't even mind having to say goodbye to Garth for the last time today. Then again, Garth would never cut a designated period of time short.

"The annual get-together seems like a good place to close off my resistance career," Garth said. A smile came across Dean's face and he nodded slowly.

"One last party." It was one of the few moments of levity when everything was allowed. A designated number of volunteers stood guard – those were the hardliners, the people who did not feel like drinking and dancing and possibly being distracted. True, anything could go wrong, and those people would rather keep everyone else safe. In the meantime, the others were getting drunk and had some much-deserved fun.

"We're going to miss you," Dean said. "You know that, right?"

"You won't let me forget it," Garth said with a smile on his face. That was when Garth turned around and was ready to walk down the hallway again.

"You can stay around if you'd like. Castiel's coming," Dean said. He believed Garth may be interested in seeing the angel whom he had interviewed on his first day. Garth turned to Dean again, a curious look in his eyes.

"What are you looking at?" Dean asked.

"Are you allowing him to walk around on his own and he's coming to your room. Is Bobby okay with that?"

Dean lowered his shoulders and almost sighed while he shot a slightly-annoyed look at the young father. "I don't need his permission for everything," he said. Dean was his own person who did not need any supervision. "As a matter of fact, I do have permission." Bobby didn't mind the angel going to Dean's room, especially because there was nothing on the way that Castiel could share with the angels.

"So, what'll you talk about?" Garth asked; what was the purpose of asking the angel to come over?

Dean shrugged. "There were angels in the hospital. He's got to answer a couple of questions. Not too many."

"You're not gonna ask questions that are too hard, right?" Garth wondered out loud. An angel of his age (only one year an angel), he would not know all of the intrinsic secrets or the locations of many facilities.

"Nah," Dean shook his head, "I just need answers. Wanna stick around?"

Garth did not need to think about the answer for too long. A small smile appeared on his face. "I'd like that."

He walked towards Dean and stood next to him. The two men walked into the room and inside, they waited for Castiel to arrive.

* * *

Castiel was summoned to Dean's private room. He was given an exact destination and a small roadmap. He found it without any problems, only taking a wrong turn once or twice on his way. Now his thoughts on the angels as a whole had changed, he no longer sought out resistance secrets. Once his former family found out about him, they might want to extract those secrets from him, so he might be better off not knowing them at all.

Dean wasn't the only one in his room; Garth, the interviewer from the first day, was there as well. He stood next to the young leader and seemed calm, at ease, as if he wasn't afraid to have an angel standing in front of him. This, in turn, made Castiel feel at ease.

"Why did I have to come here?"

"Who were the angels that tried to talk to you in the hospital?" Dean asked.

So, this was an interrogation. "Their names are Gadreel and Uriel. Both have been angels for over fifteen years and therefore, they are extremely skilled. They were both recruited and trained by Zachariah, and they are very respected within the angel community.

"What about their skills?" Garth wanted to know. "What are they good at?"

"They can fly and can heal themselves instantly. Only a killing blow will permanently hurt them. They have knocked out people with a single touch. Gadreel prefers to sneak up on his targets while Uriel would charge and fight you outright. When you see Uriel, there is a big chance Gadreel is waiting in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike." They worked expertly as a team and though they had different approaches, they both wielded the characteristic angel blades, deadly to both humans and angels.

"Do they have any weaknesses?" Dean asked.

Castiel shrugged. "I don't know. They seem invincible, and maybe they are. I can only say their skill and status might make them reckless and arrogant. That might be their downfall, but I can't say. I don't know them personally."

Dean and Garth looked at one another, expecting the other to ask another question. But that was it. They turned their heads to the angel again.

"Thanks for the answers," Dean asked. "That's all. You can go back to work."

Castiel nodded and left the room. From that position, he used the map to lead him back to his cell. Once he arrived there, he could easily find his way to the kitchen.

Marv had not arrived yet. It was strange – he usually shows up on time and he would not miss out on work, not even to write. He loved being in the resistance. He loved being in the kitchen, if it meant he could talk to Castiel and finally had someone to listen while he poured his heart out, to discuss his feelings and life's troubles, especially since Castiel wasn't lying anymore.

Marv eventually arrived. He was only an hour late. He seemed distracted and did not greet Castiel or even acknowledge him or anyone else. Something was seriously off.

"Marv?" He did not respond. He merely grabbed a towel and started doing the dishes. It was as if he was going through the motions, living on auto-pilot.

"Marv." This time, he had heard Castiel. He turned his head and Castiel could not read anything from his face, other than general exhaustion.

"I'm sorry," Marv said, "I'm a little distracted."

"Is there something wrong?" Castiel asked and he found himself genuinely worrying for Marv.

"No!" Marv said nervously. "No, why would something be wrong? With me, of all people! Right?" Castiel frowned.

"If you say so," Castiel said. If Marv didn't want to talk about it, Castiel wouldn't pry the answer out of him. He did hope nothing too bad was going on in his life. After a couple of seconds, Marv put down the plate and the kitchen towel and turned to Castiel.

"Something did happen," he admitted. "I don't know if I want to talk about it. I don't even know what to think of it!" He threw his hands in the air in frustration and reached for the plate. He only just refrained from throwing it on the ground and instead put it back.

"Was it bad?" Castiel wondered out loud.

"I don't know. I- I haven't decided yet," Marv responded. He looked at the ground, and then at Castiel again. "If you don't see me tomorrow, assume that I left this place."

Castiel took a step towards him; it had to truly be bad if he wanted to leave the resistance. There was still some history to record inside this building and for someone who loved to be there when history was happening, him wanting to leave at this moment was very atypical for him.

"Will you take your belongings with you?" Castiel purposely phrased this a little vaguer. It would be suspicious of Castiel outright talked about the documents Marv had been writing – it would be safer if he left them behind instead of taking them with him.

Marv shrugged indecisively. "Maybe. I don't know. I'm not sure what I should do." He sighed deeply and sat down in a chair.

"Then think about it," Castiel suggested. "Look at your options and research on what outcomes might benefit you best. Don't rush it. Just make an informed decision." And if it meant that there were more advantages to Marv leaving the resistance than to him staying, then so be it. So long as it made Marv happy and so long as he made the right choice.

Marv nodded to himself and then looked at Castiel again. "Thanks. I needed to hear that."

Castiel nodded again as an acknowledgment and they continued their work in the kitchen.

* * *

After the short interrogation, Dean decided to go back to Charlie. He hadn't seen her yet today and he really needed to go back to her, to help her find out the identity of the Nephilim. This search had turned out to be more complicated than either had thought and Charlie would be pissed if Dean didn't keep his promise to help her.

As Dean walked into Charlie's workroom, he noticed the amount of paperwork that had been spread out across the main desk had been compiled into three neat small piles of about the same height, and a fourth that was taller than the first three combined. And another bonus, Charlie was not frowning when he entered the room, though she wasn't smiling either. It was a good sign, and Dean suspected Charlie had a breakthrough in his absence.

Hey, Charlie," Dean greeted her, "You seem happier than usual."

Charlie turned to him and placed her hands on the table, glancing at the three piles of paper in front of her before looking at Dean again. "I finally got something on our Nephilim."

"That's great!" Dean said and he walked over to her side of the table. The piles had been arranged so they could be easily read from where Charlie and Dean stood.

"I've narrowed down the options to three possible identities," Charlie said. Dean grabbed the top pieces of paper on the first pile. It impressed him she managed to gather that much information on their Nephilim and their family that it warranted creating their own piles.

He read the name scribbled on top of the first paper. "Krissy Chambers."

"She and her father recently moved into the street," Charlie explained. "There is no sign of a mother beyond Krissy's birth. This one might be less likely unless a female angel could not or did not want to abort the baby and carried it to term to leave it with the father."

Dean did not have a good feeling about this first option. If an angel had been pregnant at the time of Krissy's birth – which was about eighteen years ago –, she would have been forced to abort the baby or be killed with the unborn Nephilim. Thus, the option seemed unlikely, but he was still open to accepting this.

He placed the papers back on the first pile and moved on to the middle pile. This time, Dean didn't bother picking up the first pages of the dossier.

"Jesse Turner."

"His story is a little muddier," Charlie admitted. "He was adopted by the Turner family. There are no records of who he was before this adoption. Jesse and his father have been living on the street for a long time. His mother had been murdered by an angel for unknown reasons."

This made the boy more suspicious. Why would an angel bother to kill the adopted mother, unless she knew something she was not supposed to? Unless she did something she shouldn't have? Angels have killed for less than knowing too much. Still, the story of Jesse Turner before his adoption was a mystery, and it may well be an angel conceived him and the biological mother put him up for adoption to get rid of him.

Dean moved on to the third and last pile. He could not physically move closer, however, because Charlie was standing in his way.

"And the last kid?" Dean asked.

"Adam Milligan," Charlie replied. "He and his mother lived in the street for two years. Reportedly he was at home, but his mother was away and she remains missing to this day. If he is the Nephilim, then his mother must know and hasn't shown her face yet, possibly out of fear for being killed as well."

It would make sense to protect yourself from enemies you could not defend yourself from. Dean did hope somewhere she would turn up, so that they may interview her one day.

At the moment, Dean was not willing to make a definitive decision on who he thought the Nephilim was. As of right now, it could be all three of these kids, with different levels of probability.

"Which one do you think it is?" Dean asked Charlie. Because she spent the most time with this case, he hoped that this would give her a better picture of the full situations to come to a better conclusion.

Charlie shook her head. "Until one of these people shows up and we can scrap them from the list, it could be every single one of them."

"At least we have some names," Dean said. They were closer to figuring out this mystery than before. That was a win in his book. "Good work, Charlie."

"I'm taking a break," Charlie said bluntly. Dean nodded.

"You deserve it." After spending three days and longer on this case, she was entitled to not having to look at it for a little while. She could leave the room and do some of the things she liked to do, see the people she wanted to see.

Which reminded him of some news he had to break to her. "Oh, Charlie! I tested the angel, and I don't think he's here to spy on us."

"Really?" Charlie said in an incredulous voice. She always had been opposed to the angel. Knowing he was not working against them had to be the best news she received.

"At least not anymore," Dean said. After he helped out with the fire, Castiel seemed to have made some improvements in his behavior and general stance. He helped out more. He was less grumpy and more open-minded. It had done him well. It was a good call to bring him along, if only for this change.

"I still don't trust him."

"And I understand and respect that. Just don't kill him if you see him walking around without any clear escort or guard, alright?"

"I'll try." Charlie did not seem pleased with the way things were going. Dean hoped she would not give him shit for walking around without supervision. Dean considered her half-promise as a win. One last thing to delete from his long list of things to worry about.

"Great," Dean said. "See you around. Enjoy your break."

With the progress Charlie had made, Dean decided to go to Bobby and fill him in on everything that's happened so far. Being away on a mission for even a week can keep you out of touch with the goings-on inside the bunker, and Bobby would probably like to know about the progress Castiel had made.

Dean would have to do this again when Bobby returned the next time; Bobby would be leaving soon. There have been signs that some of the resistance members they had thought they'd lost were actually living just outside of the city, in the wild unknown. Bobby was going to go there to try and see whether this information was true, and how he could safely return them to the bunker. After eight months, it was time they came home.

Dean also had a busy period ahead. He wanted to explore at least five warehouses in the span of two weeks, one right after the other if he had to. They needed to make progress, not only to please Crowley – who was still being a bitch about the situation – but so they can also make some progress towards figuring out the angels' weak spot. The sooner they had this information, the sooner they could start planning their attack around the weak spot and get rid of them once and for all.


	16. The draw

The first time they broke into the warehouse occurred a week after Castiel delivered the cassette tape to the hospital. It was rumored this warehouse held some necessary supplies for the angels. Whether this was a part of their food supply or a secret weapon stash, Dean wanted to inspect what they were keeping in there and to destroy it.

This would be the first step in an attack plan they made, targeting their warehouses. By targeting one of the bigger warehouses and destroying it with many other resistance members would make a statement. Setting it aflame was the main goal; the angels could not recover any of their materials and the resistance wouldn't have to put any lives in danger to guard the angels' resources.

Castiel believed he was not going to be involved in this particular mission. He believed they would try to keep him as far away from angels as possible, to minimize the number of angel encounters he would have. Still, Dean came to him and asked whether he'd like to participate, and while he left the initial choice to the angel, he did later admit he would have made Castiel come with if he chose to stay behind.

Castiel made the decision to help after an hour of thinking this through. He told Dean he did not know where this warehouse was or what it held; the angels had never taken him there or made its existence known to him. Luckily, Dean did not care Castiel never knew it existed and did not hold this against him. If their mission succeeded, the warehouse was going to burn to the ground and nobody would ever be able to see it again.

This warehouse lay in the outskirts of the city, on the other side, furthest away from where the bunker was located. It was an inconspicuous building sitting in the middle of the industrial area. A worn-out sign suggested this once served as a storage space for a furniture store that had gone out of business long before Castiel was even born. It was the perfect cover for the angels to keep some of their own supplies. Still, the angels may just as easily use a renovated house to fit the needs of the angels and the stock it was holding. Whatever this industrial warehouse held, it must be big or there must be large quantities.

The resistance drove to the location in six vans, all filled to the brim with people involved in this mission. In each van, two people sat in the front and ten more people were in the back, bringing the force to seventy people. The vans dimmed their lights when they entered the industrial zone and drove onto the terrain. They silently parked and the resistance members snuck out of the vans. With drawn weapons, they crept towards the entrance.

Dean and Castiel were among the first to enter the building. The others followed closely behind.

The warehouse was filled with metal transport containers one might have found at a port, or being transported by a truck. They were neatly placed closely together, one after the other, and they were all standing in the middle, leaving a large pathway on the sides.

The lights inside were also on. They wouldn't be on unless someone was here. Angels were currently guarding the warehouse. For now, they had no idea the resistance was present in the building and hopefully, none of them saw it coming.

This was where Dean and Castiel's ways parted. Castiel was authorized to walk around the warehouse with his angel blade, while Dean and the others explored the area in small groups. With a bit of luck, Castiel bumped into someone who knew he was "spying" for the angels and he could get information from them. If not, he probably stood a decent chance in a one-on-one battle with another angel. It was a chance other resistance members did not stand; they not been subjected to rigorous angel training and were not familiar with the nuances of the fighting styles. They often had come into this fight because they had lost someone to them or believed in the good cause. Any fighting skills usually had to be self-taught. Their main weapon was a gun – while advantageous in range, it was loud and would announce their presence.

As Castiel walked through the warehouse, he remained as quiet as possible. Each step was careful and calculated, looking around him to make sure nobody would try to sneak up on him without them flying up to him. The sound of gunfire breaking out and shouting gave him a scare, and he paused. Though he wanted to see what exactly was going on, he had to go on his way. Joining them could compromise his now delicate standing with the angels.

There were four offices in the building. Maybe there were some angels in those spaces. He decided to see whether they were empty and no other angels were waiting there to join the fight. These offices were on the second floor and Castiel had to climb the metal staircase to reach them, still making sure that he would not make any unnecessary noise. This should be no problem with the background noise of gunfire and shouts.

The first and second office space he entered were empty and showed no sign of ever being in use, the chairs and tables collecting dust. Castiel was probably the first to walk into these rooms in a very long time.

The third office looked more promising. There was less dust on the chairs and the desk and the windows were kept clean. Castiel entered the office and looked through the glass.

Almost every resistance member was engaged in battle. They shot at the angels which closed the distance with their flight and angel blades. Some were wounded, but the casualties amongst the resistance and angels seemed to be balanced.

Someone kicked Castiel in his right leg, in the tibia. He fell to his knees and put his hands around the hurt area. The plain was explosive but short. Whatever the damage, Castiel's regenerative healing was already working hard and with every second, the pain subsided slightly.

"Hello, Castiel," a familiar voice said. One he'd heard only a week ago.

"Gadreel."

Castiel lifted his head. In front of him stood Gadreel – incredibly patient and incredibly deadly. He was clearly in his element; he was relaxed, standing with his hands in his pockets and a modest smile on his face.

"You seemed to be in such a rush back at the hospital," Gadreel said. "I mean, you couldn't even stay for one minute. That's a little overbearing."

"They are indeed overbearing," Castiel said. Not as much as he made them out to be for Gadreel, but it was still a good story to tell.

Gadreel shrugged in response. "That's too bad." He walked closer to Castiel until two yards separated them. "But you're here and I'm here. There's no human around to tell you to keep your mouth shut. So, go ahead. What have you learned in there?"

"A lot," Castiel replied. He tried to focus his energy in healing his tibia – probably only hurt to slow him down in case of betrayal. The sooner they were fine, the bigger a chance he stood against Gadreel.

"You will need to be more specific," Gadreel said. His tone was menacing. "What about leadership? Who does it consist of?"

Castiel knew this. But he was not willing to give up that kind of information. Gadreel would have to pull it out of his head.

"Which one of those humans out there is the highest up in their hierarchy?" Gadreel then asked, but this question too was met with silence and an indifferent stare. While he was known as the calm one, Castiel's inability to respond was getting on his nerves.

"Why so silent?" Castiel averted his eyes and Gadreel knew why his fellow angel wasn't answering his questions or even speaking at all.

"You've fallen, haven't you?"

Castiel rose to his feet. His tibia still hurt, but by now it was nothing he couldn't handle. Also, he wanted to stand to confront Gadreel.

"Yes, I have." Gadreel shook his head.

"That's the wrong decision, Castiel." Gadreel sounded genuinely worried about his comrade's questionable life choices. "If you choose to ally yourself with them, you lose the fight and your life."

"I believe I can decide what I want for myself," Castiel replied. He was going to be his own person, no longer allowing the angels and their standards to define him. Castiel narrowed his eyes. "I came here on my own accord. Can you say the same thing?"

"Yes, I can," Gadreel answered. "I do what I must, what we must. We are angels, Castiel. Like it or not, we are."

"We are nothing alike," Castiel retorted. They may have the same gene set, the one that made them both angels, but that was the one thing they had in common. The biggest difference was the different mindset.

Gadreel took a step backward, away from Castiel, and he drew his angel blade, his cold eyes on the traitor. None of the worry he previously displayed was now in his posture or facial expression.

"Last chance, Castiel. Surrender now. Let yourself be escorted off these grounds. Let yourself be re-educated." Gadreel continued in a softer voice. "We only want what is best for you."

"I am not going anywhere with you," Castiel said. He shifted on his feet, prepared for what was to follow. He took his own angel blade in anticipation and kept his gaze on Gadreel.

"I wish you hadn't said that." Gadreel said. He lashed out.

Castiel stepped backward and turned his body, avoiding Gadreel's attack. Gadreel had not expected this and took an extra step forward to stabilize himself – it might have been arrogance on his part and a little pride, or he underestimated how mobile Castiel was. Either way, Gadreel started with his guard partially down and Castiel took the opportunity to attack.

He turned to face Gadreel and plunged the angel blade in Gadreel's chest before he could fly away – but he didn't, as he was mortally wounded and shocked at the swiftness of his defeat.

Castiel pulled the blade out of the flesh. Gadreel stood a couple of moments, trying to keep his balance. He did not look at Castiel, only stared at the wound. Then he fell to the ground and Castiel stood over him, watching him struggle to catch his breath while he bled out. A second later, he stopped moving.

Castiel was not remorseful; at least Gadreel could no longer harm any resistance members. He left the body in the office and continued on his way.

* * *

All angels had been accounted for. Other than Gadreel, Castiel had not come across any familiar faces guarding the contents of the containers. The angels probably abandoned the warehouse; the sheer force of the resistance's surprise attack either scared them away or hurt them significantly enough to stay away. Either way, the angels were gone and the resistance could take stock. They had no time to count every single object, but they could count the containers by their content.

Castiel watched from one side of the hangar how Dean and two of his friends took stock a bit further away from Cas' position. Dean had tried to make sure the angels were taken care of, and it seemed that he had done his job well. If Dean asked, Castiel would gladly lend a hand – but until the question came, Castiel watched them instead and was ready to step in, if need be.

Dean was standing with his back to the angel, to inspect another container. The two men by his side followed his lead.

Uriel popped up a little behind Dean.

Castiel shouted his name. it was too late for Dean or his friends to turn and react accordingly, as Uriel's weapon was already drawn. Two steps were needed and Uriel could stab Dean in the back. It could do a lot of damage and even result in death. When he dies, what would happen then? The guy in the hospital would need to be told. The other councilmembers may make rash decisions based on their grief. In any case, the resistance would lose one of its leaders, which would destabilize the resistance.

Time seemed to slow down. Castiel wanted to help. But from his position, he would only reach Dean once the damage had already been done. Immediately after shouting his name, energy rose within him. His limbs tingled – the need to be there, as opposed to 'here', grew exponentially. He had to be there. There was no other option; he had to stand by Dean and block the attack now.

Uriel already raised his blade to stab Dean in the heart through his back and he did not hold back. The blade got stuck in Castiel's chest as he flew in between Uriel and Dean.

Dean and his men turned around after hearing the tumult behind them and witnessed Uriel stabbing Castiel. The two men shot at Uriel while Dean provided some support for Castiel. They hit Uriel a couple of times before he flew away to the safety of the angel headquarters or wherever he was stationed, where he could easily heal.

Castiel's legs gave way. He collapsed and fell on his back, holding onto the blade in his chest as if it was important that it stayed in place.

"What the hell?" Dean muttered under his breath, looking at the angel. He raised his voice and knelt down beside him.

"I'll stab back next time," Castiel replied.

Each breath hurt. His chest hurt, he was weak and could barely move. His attention and energy went to the angel blade and the wound and the lung that filled with blood. He could not even be amazed he flew for the second time; the numbing yet excruciating pain needed to stop.

"Let's get him out of here," Dean told the two men he had with him. They put away their guns and picked up Castiel. They carried him to the parked vans, so they could return him to the bunker and have him heal in the safety of the base and under the watchful eye of one of their medics. Dean followed them, informing the base he would accompany their wounded angel back to base.

"Are you even healing?" Dean asked once Castiel was put in the back of the van. He still showed signs of consciousness and his hand still held the blade. When Castiel did not answer, Dean repeated the question. Castiel glanced at Dean with absent eyes.

"No," he said with a weak voice. "Only when the blade's gone." Only when nothing invasive was stuck in his body, then he could heal.

"Won't you bleed out, then?"

"Maybe," Castiel responded. "Get it out when I'm unconscious. Keep me alive, the healing will do the rest."

Dean sighed. If it were up to him, he would have already kept the blade in there. He did not look forward to pulling it out, but if Castiel said he could heal when it was out, he would do so.

The van sped through the streets, going as fast as they could without attracting too much attention. Castiel sunk deeper and deeper into an unconscious state, but sheer willpower woke him up. He stared at Dean, whose only indication that he was still alive was the rigid blinking and his breathing.

Only ten minutes away from the bunker, Castiel gave in to the growing darkness. He couldn't move anymore as he fell unconscious. And Dean pulled the blade out of Castiel's chest.


	17. Memory

Dreams and reality blended together. Castiel saw many things that had happened and things that hadn't happened and were impossible. In the meantime, his cells were trying hard to heal the wounds. With some help from the resistance doctors, Castiel healed faster than normal. Still, it was a slow process.

He was about to wake up. He was on the border of being asleep and awake, felt the blanket they'd placed on him but not quite aware he was waking up or laying in a semi-comfortable bed. In this semi-conscious state, he experienced one last fever dream.

It was the reenactment of an old memory. It had been repressed; until this day, he hadn't thought of it. Why would he? He had cut ties with his human side and other than this significance, he had a new life to make memories for. Why would he care about this one memory?

But he was no longer a loyal angel, which made this memory the more painful.

Castiel stood on the lawn of a house on fire. The flames contrasted with the darkness of the night. He watched the fire he had lit consume the house. Except it was not just a house anymore – it had once been his home. He lived there before the angels came. The human woman he'd married, the woman who did not have the right genes, his wife, was still inside. He'd drugged her. She did not wake, not even to escape the flames. At least he was merciful enough to let her sleep instead of keeping her awake during the process.

Castiel frowned and turned his head. Behind him, a young girl whose blonde hair obscured her face shouted. Someone he did not know held her back so that she would not run inside and lose her life, too.

He knew the girl. He did not see her face – would he even recognize it when he could see it? – but he knew who she was. He knew what they were to one another; her mother was burning and her father had caused it.

He experienced the emotions that he lacked when it happened. These emotions weren't the worst; it was the anonymity of his late wife and daughter. He did not remember how his wife looked, or what her name was. He could only remember his daughter being young and blonde. He couldn't even guess her age correctly. He should know this but did not remember. the angels had been thorough when they cleaned up his memories.

The scene slowly morphed and mutated as he gradually became aware of his surroundings. The weight of the blanket pressed on him and its warmth comforted him. Regular beeps broke the silence. He didn't want to wake up yet – spending more time inside this memory could trigger others that he had forgotten, more he wanted to rediscover while he danced on the line between slumber and consciousness.

But Castiel never could stay asleep when he was waking up. The angel opened his eyes and turned his head to the right. The local resistance doctor had hooked him up to some machine that kept track of his heart rate and blood pressure and they had placed a mask over his face to provide oxygen.

Castiel removed the mask; breathing without it wasn't harder than with, even if breathing itself wasn't quite comfortable yet. He did not remove the wires that tracked his heart rate and blood pressure, preferring to leave this to the doctor that put it there.

He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain that had been numb and almost undetectable before seared through his chest. He lay down again. A hand shot to the wound and calmly settled on his chest. It was still hot, but the pain subsided as he pressed his hand against it.

Right. Uriel stabbed him and the wound hadn't completely healed yet.

Castiel turned his head to the left. A small watch on the table next to the bed told him it was one o'clock. Since there wasn't a lot of traffic, he did not know whether it was one in the night or at noon. But since there was a doctor walking around, he guessed it was noon.

The doctor came when he noticed Castiel was awake and shared the details of the treatment he was given. In turn, the angel informed the doctor about his symptoms. Castiel learned that if he recovered at the same rate as before, he could leave the makeshift infirmary in two days. Castiel thanked him for his insights and then was left alone again.

Castiel liked the quiet of the infirmary. Nobody talked to him unnecessarily and he could rest a little. Accelerated healing did require a lot of energy.

At half-past two, Dean entered the room and he was surprised and glad to see Castiel had woken up. Castiel thought this was strange behavior. On the other hand, Castiel realized he was an asset still developing his skills which could help against the angels; an asset Dean could not afford to lose.

"You're awake," Dean said, stopping at the end of Castiel's bed. Castiel nodded.

"Only for a while," Castiel said. "How long have I been here?"

"A day or two." Dean paused and glanced at the machines. "Without these, you might not have made it. You were close to dying, but you're still here." He wanted to place a hand on Castiel's leg but decided against it. He reminded himself they suddenly hadn't become friends because he changed sides. "But you did most of the work. I'm glad you're still around."

He would never have made it without the doctors helping him until his healing could take over. And while he was glad to be awake, something deeply bothered Castiel.

Two days.

Many things could happen in two days. Someone's entire world could change within two days. Wars and battles could be won in even less. Knowing the ins and outs of angel hierarchy and how they would react to the warehouse having been destroyed – at least, he assumed it was destroyed while he was unconscious – the resistance literally had no time to lose.

The angels had time to spare. They could be mobilizing their troops at this very moment.

Castiel needed to do something; he couldn't just lay down and do nothing. As he tried to sit up again, the sharp pain in his chest reminded him he was not physically ready yet. Still, he fought through the pain and each inch upwards felt like a victory. Unfortunately, Dean was still standing beside and him and he noticed the pained faces Castiel made.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I have to—" Castiel began, but Dean moved closer and placed a firm hand on the angel's shoulder. Castiel stopped; this was weird, it felt wrong somehow. But it succeeded; it stopped Castiel's efforts to fight to sit up. Castiel relented and lay back down again, but he also shot an annoyed glare at Dean.

"You're awake, but that doesn't mean you're back to full strength," Dean said. He nodded. "Trust me, I know. The body is fragile."

Both human and angel bodies. Dean didn't specify, but they both were. The only difference between them was the genetic code that made Castiel an angel.

"So is the angel body."

"Yeah, well, at least you can survive something that would kill any normal person," Dean said. He paused and glanced at Castiel, mildly smiling before his face returned to its neutral expression. "But really, I'm glad you're okay."

"Because I'm an asset and you could still use me," Castiel wondered out loud.

Dean nodded. "Among other things." He stepped away from the bed. "I'll let you heal. See you around."

Dean moved away from Castiel and walked toward the door.

"I have a question," Castiel raised his voice. Dean stopped, paused for a moment and then turned to the angel. He placed his hands on his sides.

"Go ahead," he said.

How would he explain his problem? The images already faded from his mind and soon, the memory would return to the deepest crevices of his mind and forget about it, until it might return in his dreams again to remind him of the horrendous crime he'd committed.

Dean watched him with expectation, even leaning his head a little closer, to encourage Castiel to say what he needed to say.

"I need to find someone," Castiel said.

Dean did not respond immediately. "Could you be more specific?"

"One year ago, I set my house on fire." Recounting this terror called the fading image to the front of his mind. Saying it out loud made it more real. "My… my daughter. She survived. She is out there somewhere."

Dean's attitude shifted when Castiel mentioned his daughter. "Do you have more details?" the thought that Castiel was ever married and a father had never crossed his mind, despite the fact that angels often had offspring before they converted. People had kids young, around the age they could convert into angels.

"She's blonde," Castiel said. A blonde screaming for her mother. A stranger holds her back. Castiel doesn't know him, but he would like to thank him for taking care of her when he couldn't.

"Anything else?"

"I can't remember anything else." He felt hollow inside. He could not remember anything else. All other memories from when he was human were locked away behind a concrete wall he could not easily destroy. He recalled no family events; no birthdays or parties; no winters spent at the fireplace and summers in the garden. No character traits, no appearances, no names.

He could not even picture him in any of these settings, which was even scarier. He had that family. He must have lived a good life. Yet, it belonged to a stranger who may have worn his face and lived that life, but whose name he did not remember. That man must have been content. He must have been loved, and he loved the woman and child he spent most of his time with.

Castiel had nothing but the memory of the destruction of what he once must have loved.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Dean said. He hadn't destroyed his family like Castiel had been forced to, but with that empty look, Castiel figured Dean lost his family to the angels and that he blamed himself.

"I'll try my best, but don't be surprised if nothing comes up," Dean said. Castiel nodded.

"I won't." All things considered, he would be lucky if they found the girl. Knowing that she was alive and probably out there was already enough. "Thank you."

Dean nodded. "You're welcome."

He left the infirmary and Castiel was left to rest. However, his mind was restless and constructed elaborate scenarios featuring the blonde girl and a blurred image of a woman; fabricating what may have been memories he once had. Who knows, maybe one of the things he fantasized happened and the angels took it away from him.

The angels… his betrayal would not go unnoticed. He may have been in the resistance and not reporting, but until the warehouse, his fall had been all but confirmed. He'd flown to save one of the resistance leaders – hopefully, Uriel hadn't picked up on that detail.

No. Uriel definitely had picked up on this. If Castiel left the bunker again or they found him, he was in big trouble. If any angel saw him, they were probably instructed to kill him on sight. He would be dead within minutes.

Now Castiel wondered whether they were actively going to try to find him.


	18. Formalities

Uriel was called to the angel headquarters, located in the middle of the city. After the angels took power, they rebuilt the city hall into their main building. Though the outside was old and desperately needed renovation, the inside was still brand new. Even as the evening fell, the white walls in combination with the white lights made it seem like it was always daytime inside those walls.

Nobody ever entered through the front door. The general public had forgotten the angels left the city hall to rot, but the angels entered the building by flying inside. A renovation would give away their position.

Flying in, his eyes always needed to adjust to the lights. Then, he walked through the halls – a procedure of courtesy and not flying inside someone's office – towards Zachariah's office.

Rumors were going around about Zachariah. He supposedly fathered a Nephilim in his younger years. The well-timed fire in the residential area confirmed the theories. Zachariah had wordlessly taken responsibility for his mistakes and wiped this blemish off of his otherwise spotless record. Young angels made more mistakes than older ones.

It would be hard not to give in to temptation and to ask Zachariah about it. After all, Zachariah was in the position to punish Uriel for those questions.

Uriel knocked on the door. Zachariah called him in and Uriel obeyed.

The office was as white and clean as the rest of the building was, with its white walls and white lights and white furniture. And Zachariah sat on his chair, while Uriel was left to stand.

"You wanted to talk to me?"

"Indeed," Zachariah answered. "I wanted to talk to you about yesterday."

Uriel shifted on his feet. Zachariah noticed.

"I told you everything I knew," Uriel said confidently. He tried to play shifting on his feet off as trying to find a more comfortable way to stand. But Zachariah was not stupid. He wanted to hear Uriel tell the story one last time to uncover any details they might have missed before.

"Please, do recount it one more time," Zachariah said. Uriel nodded once and he spoke without hesitation.

"Gadreel and I were called to the warehouse as back-up. I soon lost contact with Gadreel and witnessed Castiel was off-guard. He was looking at this person. I assume he must be important to either the resistance or Castiel, and he was taking stock. I decided to kill him, but Castiel flew in between me and that man. I hit Castiel instead and had to leave because others were firing bullets at me. It was a strategic retreat."

"Is he still alive?" Zachariah asked.

"I believe he did not survive the assault," Uriel said with a cautious tone. "Even while healing, I can't see him recover. I struck him in his chest."

"Did Gadreel say anything about it?" Zachariah hoped that Gadreel might have given some information on angel radio, which Uriel and other angels in the vicinity would've been able to pick up.

"Before he died, there was a strong implication he was going to kill Castiel. He believed Castiel had fallen and refused to speak to us or to redeem himself." He paused to find the right words. "If he has turned his back on us, I hope he is already dead or still suffering."

There were a couple of moments of silence, after which Zachariah nodded.

"Thank you for the information." Uriel nodded once in response and, seeing this as his cue to leave, already turned around.

"One more thing." Uriel stopped. "We have a new recruit coming in today. Someone will pick him up, but you will be training him personally."

"Of course," Uriel said. "Where is he from?"

"He did not say," Zachariah said. "Since I am otherwise occupied, you will need to take him under your wings. He has the right genes, but he will need to gain confidence before he can be one of us. I assume that won't be a problem?"

"No, it wouldn't," Uriel said. He did not like how he had to train someone's confidence or even training a new angel. Maybe it was a partial punishment for not being able to kill the leader or even to keep the warehouse from being destroyed. But he could do nothing about it; he still needed to do as Zachariah said.

"Good," Zachariah smiled. "You may leave."

Uriel bowed his head. He turned around and left the room.

Zachariah leaned back in his chair. He believed what Uriel said, but something inside him told him the angel made it out. Zachariah had often left someone for dead, both angel and human, only for them to return. One such human case was Dean, the leader Uriel was talking about. That guy just could not die or stay dead. If he could make it back alive, then surely the same could apply to Castiel.

"How vague can you be?" An unfamiliar voice asked from behind him. "Why don't you ever say something outright."

Zachariah rose from his chair and quickly turned around to see the visitor that snuck up on him. His black suit sharply contrasted with the white of the office, an anomaly that shouldn't be here and that would never fit in, going as far as flying into the office instead of walking around.

"You should not criticize our methods," Zachariah said. "You adhered to them not even three years ago."

The man in black, Crowley, nodded once. "I am aware." He had nothing else to say on the matter and did not seem to be in a rush to take a seat. So they stood and watched each other silently.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Zachariah said. He hadn't thought Crowley would arrive so soon after they decided to meet up. Crowley shrugged in response.

"I didn't have anything better to do." Another contrast. Crowley had plenty of time for many things, while Zachariah was limited to the leadership and the actions of angels.

"So you contact me to meet up." Zachariah tilted his head. "After three years, we meet again on neutral ground."

Crowley glanced around the white room, readily displaying his distrust.

"I wouldn't call your territory 'neutral ground'." He turned his gaze to Zachariah again.

"Did you change your mind?" Zachariah asked. It was always a possibility, a chance he should keep open. No matter how serious the crimes were a fallen angel had committed, so long as they showed remorse for their heinous actions and set things right by providing information they had gathered during their times of disobedience or correcting their mistakes.

"Change my mind?" Crowley shook his head. "Never."

"Then enlighten me," Zachariah said. "Why did you so necessarily want to talk to me?"

"There's a war between you and the resistance," Crowley explained. "And war claims victims and a winner. I'd like to be on the winning side."

Zachariah grinned. "A wise decision."

Crowley nodded. "You can do whatever you want. I will not stand in your way or assist the resistance in any way."

"And what do you want in return?" Crowley backing down from the resistance would definitely help them, but everything came at a cost. Especially when Crowley was involved.

"I want amnesty for me and my followers." Crowley's tone suggested he would not bargain for anything else. Any other offer may not be accepted. "We go our separate way. You will leave us alone and we will leave you alone."

"That seems reasonable," Zachariah responded. Crowley did not speak about the duration of this agreement.

"We have a deal, then?" Crowley extended his hand. Zachariah glanced at it – if he took it now, they would not be able to take on Crowley. When the resistance was gone, Crowley would be fair game again.

"Yes, we have a deal," he said as he shook Crowley's hand with full conviction. A grin appeared on Crowley's face.

"If you go back on these terms, I will strike back," Crowley warned him before letting go of the hand. Zachariah was not intimidated at all by this threat.

"Likewise," Zachariah said. "I will see you again."

"Undoubtedly," Crowley said and he flew away, out of Zachariah's reach.

Zachariah sat down on his comfortable chair, reflecting on the turbulence of the past few days. The death of the Nephilim, a recruit of interest, the warehouse fire, the meeting with Crowley… the past few days have been eventful.

Then there was the trouble with the resistance itself. One warehouse and one cover house have been destroyed. They were going to strike again soon. Deveraux's files had made it to the resistance and it was his fault again.

It was different than their usual strategies. The resistance crawled out of the shadows and into the night, to destroy angel property. They had started an attack; they had begun the war and now waged it in full. This war may decide the fate of either organization.

Zachariah did not plan to lose this war.


	19. Family relations

Castiel remained in the hospital bed for another two days. Even for himself, he believed he'd healed rapidly. He didn't mind having all of his energy to go into fixing the wound – it would mean he would be walking around the hallways of the resistance once more, this time as a somewhat estranged member instead of a prisoner.

An estranged member, not 'just a member'. He did not see himself to be a part of this operation. He wanted to help, but he did not necessarily pledge his allegiance to Dean or the other leaders, whoever they were. He still was an angel at his core; some of the old brainwashing still lingered in his mind and if the people knew he was an angel, he did not foresee being able to leave the building unharmed or even alive. Charlie was a good example of such a person – she'd rather see him dead than alive, she'd rather he give the information than he keeps it to himself.

Still, Castiel enjoyed it. He preferred it this way. He liked to stay in the shadows and only stepped in the foreground whenever Dean needed him. He did not need people to know what he was until he could fully trust them and until he found the right way to positively present himself after rediscovering his not-yet restored sense of identity.

Castiel left his hospital bed and walked around in his suit – someone had fixed the stab hole, but he hadn't found a worthy substitute for the trench coat. He missed the comfort the coat brought him, the calm and protection it offered. He may never find some other metaphorical armor to protect him from the true enemy this time.

Castiel wandered around wherever his feet would take him. He passed the garage, the cell that they now called his room, the kitchen. Marv was not inside – he also hadn't visited Castiel nor had he shown up for work, according to someone who took note of his disappearance. If Castiel asked someone else, they would not be able to tell him whether Marv had recently been around or where he was. Knowing their general attitude towards Marv, they'd say they were glad he was somewhere else, "anywhere but here".

Castiel continued his journey through the bunker's extensive chambers and halls. He wandered into a to him as of yet unknown part of the bunker and ended up in some sort of common room. It was spacious enough to hold at least three hundred people and there were at least for different entrances to this place. Castiel entered through the entrance located on the balcony, overlooking the common. From his perspective, he saw what could possibly be one of the bunker's main entrances in front of him, on the first floor, and two more on his sides at the same level as what he assumed to be the main entrance. There stood a big table with a map of the city in the middle of the room and many books filled the shelves. No natural light fell in this room, but the artificial light was more than enough. To his left side, a dark metal staircase connected the floor with one another.

Castiel remained in his position. There weren't many people in the room. They hadn't noticed him. And if they did look up from their books or computers when they heard someone walking on the balcony, they glanced and returned to the to what occupied them. Castiel wondered whether he once enjoyed reading as much as these people seemed to, whether he was a book person.

He was not alone on the balcony for a long time. Soon, Dean had spotted him and came to stand next to him, leaning against the railing and looking at the relatively empty space in front of them.

"Are you feeling better yet?" Dean asked.

"I can barely feel it anymore," he said. They didn't look at one another and they had not much else to talk about. And yet, the conversation continued.

"I haven't found anything on your family yet," Dean said. Castiel nodded in resignation. "But we are still looking. There's gotta be something out there on you or your family eventually."

"Did you come here just to tell me?" Castiel then asked.

"No," Dean said. "I also wanted to say Bobby's coming back."

"Where has he been?" Castiel asked. He hadn't seen the older man around for a while and he hadn't felt confident before to ask about what happened to Bobby. People might think it was weird he worried about Bobby and might think he was only trying to gather intel instead of showing actually worried.

"Some of our members have gone on an expedition outside of the city a couple of months ago. We believed they were dead because they didn't return. Bobby wasn't convinced and went to look for them. Thankfully, they're alive and are returning home today, if everything goes well." A small smile appeared on his face. "We're all glad they're okay. It's best if you didn't talk to them, but if you do, you'd better not mention you're an angel."

"I wasn't planning to," Castiel said.

They stayed in their place, and so did Dean. They stood side by side, with five feet between them, looking at the entrance right ahead and waiting for Bobby and the lost souls who spent months outside of city borders in possibly pitiful circumstances.

At long last, there was some movement. The heavy door creaked open and in walked Bobby, who was immediately greeted by some of the people in the room. A group of women, presumably the lost expedition members, entered behind him. Everyone in the room dropped what they were doing to help the ladies, to welcome them back.

Castiel caught glimpses of their faces through the gathering crowd and was shocked at their appearance. Only one or two actually looked like adults; two confident women, a weak smile on the blonde's face but a serious expression on the face of the woman whose brown hair was already graying. The other women, Castiel guessed, had the average age of sixteen or they just looked young.

Each of the girls was different in their own way, reacting to their return the same way the blonde did – happy to be back with their friends and under a proper roof. Castiel scanned the crowd, but his eyes fell on the last girl who entered the bunker. He longer leaned on the railing but straightened his back and he dared not take his eyes off of her. She was blonde, wore a leather jacket and had a certain familiarity about her.

Better yet, Castiel knew her.

So he stared at her. However much he wanted to talk, he honestly did not know what to say or even how to start the conversation. God, she'd grown so much… or she was this tall and his memory had reduced her to a silly emotional little girl.

"You shouldn't stare," Dean said. Castiel nodded once, not averting his eyes. He was afraid to lose sight of her if he only looked away.

"I know her," he said. Dean had no idea who Castiel talked about since he couldn't tell who Castiel was talking about. "It's her."

"Your daughter?" Dean wondered and he frowned in confusion. What a coincidence his child should be working for the resistance. Luckily for Castiel, there was one new recruit who had been with her during the same time period Castiel was an angel and whose story matched the story Castiel had told him. How had Dean not seen it before?

"Her name is Claire Novak."

That was all Castiel needed to hear. "Claire."

It sounded right. The memories did not come crashing in, but at least the name made sense to him. Claire Novak. His daughter. With that name, it must mean he once was a Novak, too. But that name belonged in his past; he would not call himself a Novak today. He burned that name along with his memories, property and late wife.

Then Claire noticed him. The smile on her face faded away, making way for pure shock. Some of her friends noticed and asked her about it. She may have told them who he was, or not; Castiel couldn't hear it. Claire barely took her eyes off of Castiel unless she spoke, much like the angel.

Eventually, Claire stepped away from the thinning group of friends, who were going deeper into the bunker to see the people they left behind. But Claire did not go to look for the people she had to leave for the expedition; she walked right to the father who had hurt her.

Castiel's nerves played up and he clenched the iron leaning of the balcony. He dreaded what was going to happen, but he did not want to run from the conflict. This morning, not even five minutes ago, he thought he would never see her again and never would get the chance to apologize. He knew this would not be easy, but this was at least something he could do. At least he was getting this chance.

Claire hastily climbed the stairs. Dean stepped away from Castiel, to give them the space they needed.

Castiel could not say a word when they stood face-to-face again. He could only stare at her, a weirdly proud yet still empty feeling inside of him. Look how far she's come. Look how great she's become. It's unfortunate the resistance made her this way.

She was not thinking the same. She saw the man she had loved most of her life and she'd known he loved her back. Then he left, only to return periodically, changing until he was fully changed after only seven months. He then left again, for the longest period of time, before he came back for the last time. He brought her out of the house and set it ablaze. She would never forget the indifferent look on his face. He watched the flames and no matter how many times she called for him, he did not turn his head to her – not even as he left the property.

Claire punched him in his stomach. It was hard enough to make Castiel groan and double over. Dean immediately stepped in to hold back Claire while Castiel tried to remain on his feet, clenching his stomach. The pain combined with his healing wound was not a pleasant feeling, but he felt he deserved it.

"Easy!" Dean said, standing between the two, ready to grab Claire's wrists if she would try to punch Castiel again. But she didn't. Instead, she pointed at him and glared at Dean.

"You know what he is, right?" Claire asked loudly, furious at Castiel's mistakes. "He's an angel!"

"He's changed," Dean told her, "he's fallen."

Claire did not want to believe it. She only glanced at Castiel in fury and disbelief. Castiel understood her anger; he deserved her wrath.

"I'm sorry for what I did," he said, but Claire already shook her head.

"You're not." She glanced at Dean once more before pushing past the two and storming off. Neither Dean nor Castiel went after her. Dean preferred to stay with Castiel for the time being.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked. Castiel nodded.

"I'm fine," he responded. "I deserved it."

That was all he needed to say. Castiel left the common room to go back to his room. He needed to lie down. As far as he was concerned, for a first meeting, that went better than he expected. Actually, he had not expected anything since the possibility of ever seeing her appeared so suddenly.

Only time would tell if Claire would come to look for him if she wanted to see him again. When she did approach him, he would be there, ready to apologize and to own his mistakes. He was not, however, going to make her come to him so he could come clean. Because what was the point of wanting to apologize for his horrible actions if he was going to bring her to him if she may not want to see him again?


	20. Not a Novak

Claire had not spoken to Castiel or Dean in three days while they prepared for the upcoming party. They also hadn't seen Claire since then. It was always a possibility she purposely avoided them, and especially Castiel, though she might also be doing her own thing inside or outside of the bunker.

Either way, Castiel was supposed to check whether the security of the party was good enough to hold back young angels who hadn't developed their wings yet. Even though it was unlikely the angels would send their inexperienced and young to fight the bunker. It did not matter, as the resistance relied on the fact the angels did not know where the bunker was located and what the insides held and as such would not know whether they would fly into a harmful situation. Castiel said the safeguards were good enough and continued his work.

Castiel returned to his room after a long day of work. Dinner wasn't served until half an hour, which means he had some time left in his room, which now was permanently unlocked. If they planned to give him a proper room, Castiel hadn't been told. But he had grown to like this room; he didn't need a lot of space or comfort and it was located away from the general population. If the angels ever were coming for him and they found him right away, they would linger and fight. It would provide more time for the resistance to prepare and more lives would be saved.

He lay down on his bed and closed his eyes for a minute. He did not sleep, but his mind wandered to the home he burned down. Castiel had tried to reconstruct the events in his mind, in the hopes of unlocking some older memories. He never could decide whether that chair was quite right, whether the walls did have that color, whether the tree in their backyard was a willow tree or an oak tree. Those details would make it impossible to find the one right combination.

The door creaked and Castiel opened his eyes. In the door opening stood Claire. She may not have thought Castiel was going to be in his room at that moment. He only caught a glimpse of her before she left. Castiel kept his eyes on the door and tried to fit Claire into the house he tried to reconstruct. It did not seem quite right.

Claire eventually returned to his room, cautiously opening the door and peeping inside. Castiel was still on his bed. She doubted what her next course of action would be and, then entered the room.

"Weren't you going to tell me to come back?" Claire asked boldly. Castiel shook his head as he sat up.

"That's not right," he responded. He looked in her direction but did not quite look at her. "You're old and mature enough to make your own decisions. If you want to talk, I'll be here. If you want to leave, I won't stop you. I won't make you do anything."

She was not surprised that he spoke calmly, but she was impressed by his positive message and his willingness to give her the freedom to do as she pleased, to not question her decisions or to even leave her the choice.

"So you did change," Claire said. It was more a flat statement than a big revelation. He had changed from a loyal angel into… whatever he identified as now. An angel still, yet not so loyal anymore, since that had shifted. And it seemed he would continue to change. Who knows, in a month, he may be something else completely than he was today.

"Yes, I did," Castiel said. He looked at her. Her eyes conveyed the pain and emotional turmoil; she needed closure. She needed answers and dared not ask. Or she waited for the right moment. Even though she was now a stranger – how he wished she wasn't a stranger – it pained him to see her so conflicted.

"You can ask me anything," he told her. "I promise I will answer."

She glanced away for just a moment.

"Why?" she stared at him again, trying not to let sentiment get the better of her. "Why did you do it?"

It was the big questions he had been anticipating – the question he had prepared an answer for. The phrasing he couldn't quite remember now she stood in front of him. He would try to give a comprehensive answer nonetheless and hoped she'd listen to everything before making her judgment.

"Because I had to. I wanted to," Castiel admitted. It was foolish to deny he had not wanted it then. He kept his eyes on her. "The angels have a way to… they get inside your head. They exploit your weaknesses to strip you of yourself. When there is nothing left, they build you up again to be like them. They take away your thoughts and brainwash you so you'll never question their authority. You don't notice until it's too late. By then, you don't mind anymore."

He paused. Though he realized it happened, saying it out loud was harder than he thought it would be. Tears came to his eyes – they didn't use to do that. Castiel took a quick breath.

"So why did I do it? I cannot speak for the person I used to be. I know I needed to cut ties to my family if I ever wanted to join the angels. It was a requirement."

Castiel shook his head once. "They must have done their job too well. They turned my mind into a cruel place. Cutting ties could have been never seeing you again, burning a picture, and everything in between. They changed me so much I wanted to make it more permanent."

This confirmed Claire's worst fears and gave her insight into the horrible things angels made their recruits do – or made their recruits want to do. It confirmed that Castiel was not a good person, despite what angels have been telling him and despite what he's been doing to set things right. Who would commit murder and arson? Only crazy angels would.

"You don't need to forgive me," Castiel said; "You never have to. I am so sorry, but my apologies won't undo what I have done. It barely eases my mind." His apologies would never be enough and all his future actions were not going to come even close to making up for it. "You don't even have to talk to me. But if you decide you want the contact, I will be there for you." And, if need be, he would wait until the day he died. It would not even bother him if she never wanted to talk again. At least she knew, at least he confessed to his crimes, at least she was given the choice to show forgiveness.

"Anything else you want to get off your chest?" Claire asked softly. His words left an impact on her. Despite his words, she believed he had not said everything he wanted to say. She presented him with the chance to come clean now.

"I am sorry for everything," Castiel said. "I'm especially sorry for passing down the genes to you. Right now, I would never forgive myself if you are on the side of angels one day. For that fate, I am deeply sorry."

Especially because it would be his fault. She still could make a choice, but he made it so that she had this choice. He made her, so it was his fault these genes were passed on to her. She may have five, maybe ten years more before her own conversion.

"Good to know," she said.

They remained quiet for a while. Neither looked at the other; Claire had not hit the realization yet while Castiel was ashamed of what he has become. He wondered about a time before he was an angel, before they had taken him from his home to be re-educated.

Claire had not left yet. He might as well ask.

"What was he like?"

Claire turned her head to him and frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Your father," Castiel specified. "The person I used to be. What was he like?"

"You don't remember?" Claire asked. Castiel could only nod. If the memories were still in his mind, the angels had locked them all away in the crevices of his head and threw away the key. Castiel had no idea how to unlock them. His only accessible memory was the burning house.

"You were… kind and patient," Claire said. As she spoke, she randomly glanced at Castiel but never could keep her gaze on him. "You cared a lot and you wore your heart on your sleeve. You were hopelessly hopeful and believed there had to be some God out there, but the angels weren't sent by Him. You were brave and stood up for your beliefs." A smile had grown across her face, recalling memories made through the rose-tinted glasses of a girl looking up to her father. She made eye contact again. "You loved us with all your heart. You'd do anything to protect us."

"Thank you," Castiel said. He wanted to smile, but couldn't – the weight of his losses had been placed on his shoulders. His mind used those details to fantasize about the past. He constructed what could only be an incomplete and imperfect picture and it saddened him.

"Do you think the damage can be undone?" Claire asked.

Castiel shrugged. "The brainwashing is strong. It took me time away from the angels and specific information to see through it." Some angels had regained their memories – those angels only received limited to no training from other angels who could have removed them. Only the future could tell how much Castiel could regain.

No more words were exchanged except for 'goodbye' and 'see you around'. Castiel was alone in his room again, his mind clear now Claire had heard his confessions. Yet he still thought about the little details of his former personality he no longer possessed.

Something crossed his mind while reflecting on the relationship he would have with Claire. No matter what happened, he was still her biological father. He passed the Novak name on to her, but the angels took this name from him. The angels made it so he was not a Novak anymore. He could never be a Novak anymore.

Or maybe that wasn't true. Maybe he could claim the name again when Claire believed he'd earned it. Unless Claire said it, he did not deserve that name anymore. It would take a while – it could take a lifetime – but Claire needed to agree to it first.


	21. Party

Every six months, the resistance held a party. If planned correctly and held on the right dates, these parties could heighten the guests' low morale and lighten the usual downtrodden mood. It was an afternoon and evening of relaxation, of dancing and singing as if nothing else mattered, of forgetting the present and living in the here and now – having fun for one night before facing the harsh reality of their world again.

So twice a year, the resistance hosted their party. It had proven efficient to raise the morale of its members – it wasn't as effective as a couple of weeks or months of vacation would be, but it allowed for everyone who didn't want to have a vacation to forget the struggle and to let go of their responsibilities for that one night. On a more administrative note, it was also a good tool to measure how long you've been with the resistance. It was something to look forward to – it meant you survived another six months in the resistance, and that in and of itself was worthy of a celebration.

Still, it was not a regular party. They celebrated inside their highly protected and recently fortified bunker. Resistance members who did not want to party would act as guards and patrolled the hallways and rooms, in case of an attack. Castiel could have easily joined the guards, but Dean did not want to risk their angel running into Charlie, who would patrol and might perceive him as a security threat. She still did not trust him. So, Castiel decided to keep an eye during the party itself, in full view of the members. He could keep an eye on everyone, and anyone could keep an eye on him.

When Castiel entered the large room the resistance had chosen to host their party in, he immediately felt out of place. Music played through the intercom and some guests were already dancing to it, some lightly-alcoholic drinks in their hands. Others held glasses of water or soda and chatted, enjoyed the company of those around them. They toasted to surviving another six months and to the next six months. Castiel, on the other hand, did not dance or drink – these concepts never fit into angel philosophy because these activities could cloud your judgment or distract you from the task at hand. As a former angel, he was not made to be comfortable in these surroundings. And yet, he proceeded to the other side of the room, from which he'd have a great view of the room.

People stared. Being alone, without a drink and not even a hint of a smile on his face, he stood out. It did make it easier for others to find and approach him.

"Castiel," Dean said. He came closer to the angel and then stood next to him. Dean was enjoying himself, a bottle of beer in his hand and a smile on his face. Castiel was wary; he had never seen Dean smile like that. "How's it going?"

Castiel shrugged. "I don't know." This wasn't as pleasant as he hoped he would experience it and the brainwashing made it harder to make it more enjoyable.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm…" How could he best explain it? "I'm going through a lot at the moment."

It should be simple: he was an angel, he'd fallen, so he was a fallen angel. Yet, Castiel refused to use that word to describe himself anymore. He was not 'an angel', not even a 'fallen angel' – to him, it suggested the small chance he could return. Was he human, then? That was tricky as well. He did not automatically go back to being a Novak. He was not a Novak, the angels took that aspect from him. And figuring out what positive could be found in those two negatives was not an easy task.

"That rough," Dean said. He placed a weirdly amicable hand on Castiel's shoulder. Castiel did not push it off. "You'll find a way, I'm sure of it. Oh, by the way, Claire's been talking about you."

Castiel frowned. "She has?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded. "Nothing too negative, but nothing too positive either. She's still mad at you, but I think she understands the angels turned you into…" Dean paused and motioned at Castiel. "Well, you."

"Will she be here?" Castiel wondered. He hadn't seen her or her friends on the dancefloor or to the sides of this room.

"I don't think so," Dean said. "They're still getting used to our group again. I believe they're out in the city, looking for a home, but I'm not sure."

Castiel nodded. "Thank you for the information." It was probably better this way. Spending time apart to think about the situation was now favorable over awkward silences and glares.

"No problem." Dean took a gulp from his beer and continued his way through the room, joining a random group of people and asking them if they were having a good night. Maybe everyone who had been drinking was having fun, otherwise they wouldn't so easily shake off their masks and safeguards.

Castiel was not immediately back to being alone in a crowd of resistance members. But after Dean talked to him, Garth arrived. He did not look like he'd been drinking alcohol and Castiel was comfortable enough to approach Garth and have a friendly conversation.

As he came closer, Garth noticed he was coming and smiled amicably at him.

"Garth," Castiel said when he was within earshot. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too," Garth said.

"I've heard you're leaving after tonight," Castiel said; he could not think of any other topic to discuss with the retiree. Garth nodded in response.

"That's the plan."

"Good luck in the world. It can be hostile," Castiel said. "If you need any help…"

"I'll call," Garth finished the sentence, the grin on his face growing wider. "You know, you're the seventeenth person to offer help. When I call, I'll have an army at my disposal."

"I don't think they'd want it any other way," Castiel said. "Good luck;" He meant those words. During their first encounter, Castiel could not have imagined wishing him good luck at this stage.

"Thank you," Garth said. "I'll see you around. Everyone will want to talk to me tonight."

"Of course," Castiel said.

Then Garth left and Castiel was alone once more. He did not mind as much, but he could feel the many eyes watching him. Maybe alcohol could make him forget those eyes, but he wasn't going to drink a single drop tonight, for he did not remember what the effects of alcohol would be on his body. So, he continued to be at is most comfortable by standing aside and watching people having fun.

And so far, everything was going well. People were opening up to one another. Some people were laughing with one another, while two men in the corner solemnly toasted to celebrate they made through another six months and possibly to commemorate those who may not have it to today.

From time to time, he moved around the room, to have a look at the room from different perspectives. He needed just one look to find Dean again in the crowd; the alcohol had gotten the better of him as he tried to goad those who weren't visibly having fun into dancing. He wasn't very successful, but he still tried. And as Castiel watched them, a strange thought popped up in his mind: maybe they could be his new 'family'. A strange one, fighting against his old family, but he could see himself staying to his dying day.

A strange thought. But comforting, too. And maybe true, in the future.

Then his eye fell on something peculiar. It was a small dark box that might easily fit in one's hand. Castiel had never seen one like this before, but during his angel training, he learned of all the weapons the angels had at their disposal. Those weapons included these small boxes, filled with explosives.

From across the room, Castiel noticed some people that had not been there before. They were also not having fun and Castiel could sense their radiating aura like they could feel his. After all, an angel could always sense another angel.

The angels were inside the base, behaving very unlike themselves by infiltrating first and attacking later – by infiltrating at all. Something was off about that, but Castiel did not think about that because they were inside and could do damage and Dean needed to know.

One problem: Castiel had lost him in the crowd.

"Dean!" He expected his voice to carry through the room, yet he was only barely audible over the sound of the music. He finally noticed Dean again, who had turned his head in confusion. He hadn't heard who had called him and was looking around. His eyes locked with Castiel and noticed the nervousness.

BOOM!

Four different explosions went off. The blast of the nearest explosive box pushed Castiel violently to the ground. He hit his head and for a few sweet moments, the world was silent.

Castiel forced himself to get back up. He almost fell over, dizzy from the blast, but stayed unstable on his feet.

Screams and cries drowned out the music. Terror had replaced the fun. More and more angels appeared in the room; they stabbed and killed victims who tried to escape.

The room had been torn to pieces. Furniture was destroyed and two small fires were left to grow. The colors had been reduced to shades of black and gray and brown and red. Cracks ran from the floor to the ceiling – it may give way and bury and crush those unable to flee. Survivors, victims, wounded ran to any of the four exits – their ways were blocked. The angels were ruthless and eliminated the threat. Those who fought were killed; those who hid were found. Both contributed to a growing number of corpses in the room and nobody escaped.

In the chaos, Castiel could not find Dean. He had to be fighting. Or he was already dead, be it by explosion or a violent stabbing.

He did find Garth. He lay on his back, eyes wide open. The stab wound soaked his shirt in blood, a growing stain that would never be cleaned up.

"Castiel!" A voice called from beside him. Uriel. "Did you like our entrance? I'm sure we made a hell of an impact."

Castiel shook his head. As expected, there stood Uriel, with fury in his eyes and the absolute need to kill Castiel for his disobedience. Once, Castiel had the greatest respect for this angel – that respect was now nothing but pity. He was no longer superior and though he was an enemy and needed to be stopped, Castiel could only think that Uriel, too, was a victim of a cruel system he tried to keep in place.

"Uriel," Castiel said. This would not end well.

Uriel glared at Castiel. "You killed my partner."

"He was going to kill me first." If it were up to Castiel, he would not have been the one to have killed Gadreel. He would have knocked Gadreel out to leave him in the warehouse. He was not to be held accountable for the death; Gadreel attacked first and Castiel only defended himself and his life.

"Because you fell," Uriel said. "If you hadn't decided to fall, we would not be standing here as enemies. You would be killing them with us. Just imagine it." The screams hadn't stopped. There were still some more people to kill.

Castiel could not picture himself fighting alongside the angels. In extenso, he could no longer picture himself giving them the location of the resistance's bunker to the angels. He still did not know exactly where it was located and he didn't believe he would've been able to extract it from someone.

"I suppose I won't get another chance," Castiel said. Uriel shook his head.

"You've had your chance." He pulled his angel blade. Castiel mirrored the movement, not breaking eye contact. "Now you will die."

Uriel lunged at Castiel, who stepped aside and blocked Uriel's attack. The ensuing fight was a series of gaining and losing ground, of parries, overhand and underhand attacks. Castiel scratched Uriel's arm, while Uriel grazed Castiel's leg. One minute, two minutes passed, and Castiel held his ground.

But Uriel had been an angel longer than Castiel. While they had the same training, Uriel had been using these techniques for a much longer time and was more practiced than Castiel.

Uriel punched Castiel in the face. The fallen angel staggered backward and dropped his blade through the impact, becoming disoriented for only a few seconds. Uriel took his chance and buried his angel blade deep in Castiel's stomach.

Pain seared through Castiel's abdomen. Uriel twisted the blade to deal more damage. The wound stung and then grew number while he bled internally. Castiel glanced at his abdomen and while he looked, Uriel pushed him to the ground.

Castiel fell badly, hurting himself a little more. He coughed, the dust and the pain getting to him.

"You're weak," Uriel sneered. Instead of retrieving his blade, he kicked Castiel in his stomach region. Castiel could barely defend himself from the continuous kicks. Uriel seemed to enjoy himself.

"Did you really believe you could beat us? That they could? Nobody wins from us. Not even this ragtag amateur militia. You've been naïve and you fell. They will die with you."

Castiel could not lift a finger to defend himself. He only rolled on his side, trying out a more comfortable situation from which he could flee, but Uriel's foot came crashing down on Castiel's face. Through the impact, he landed on his back. His head throbbed, blood dripped from his nose. His vision blurred and his mind could no longer produce any sensible thought.

He wanted for the killing blow, but it did not come. Uriel must have left him, must have deemed a quick death too merciful for him. Castiel was alone in the rubble.

Castiel pulled the blade out of his stomach to kick-start his healing abilities. He then tried to roll on his side again, to make his escape. Yet this was all his body allowed him to do; it was all the energy his body allowed him to use up without purpose. The rest of his energy was sent immediately to the wound that may prove to be fatal.

Crawling along would not have done him well. He imagined passing people he'd seen around in the bunker now motionless on the ground. He imagined all the rubble, maybe a little too harshly than it already was.

So he lay helplessly on the ground as his energy faded away, seeping out of his body with the blood he was losing through his stomach and nose.

It shouldn't be too hard to just close his eyes. He could barely keep them open. Yes, he could die while his body tried to heal itself, but it was better than being awake and aware of the pain that was ever-present in his body now.

Castiel closed his eyes. The sounds around him faded as his consciousness was pulled down deeper and deeper into the unknown.


	22. Devil on my shoulder

Today was a good day.

On days like these, Sam liked to think he was getting better. The food tasted better, there would be no visitors today and he hadn't had any episodes in a while. The voice in his head had been quiet. In fact, it hadn't spoken or bullied him at all since the last sunrise.

But he wasn't getting better. There probably was no 'getting better' in this type of situation. He needed to learn how to deal with it, on his own, so that maybe one day he could function in society again.

The devil on his shoulder was quiet. It usually meant he was up to something big, something Sam could not ignore. This devil probably needed time to set his plan for today into motion, so Sam could at least try to get some sleep now.

When he woke up again, the sun had already set. Refreshed after some of the best sleep he's had in a while, he turned on the tv. Maybe the news would encourage his devil to start his plan sooner, but Sam wanted to take that chance. He was going to enjoy one of the only forms of entertainment he had, even though it sometimes worked him up so much he had to turn the tv off again.

The current news item, which concerned angel on angel murders, was interrupted by breaking news. A reporter was shooting live footage and informed the audience of what was going on. the news lady had told the audience the angels found one of the resistance's strongholds and that it was under attack. The reporter was risking his life, then, to show this footage. It was a dark area and not very well-lit, but Sam still recognized the immediate area. He'd been there long enough to see it.

"Oh, dear. They found the bunker."

Not now… Sam turned his head and there he stood – the personification of all of his problems, the devil on his shoulder. Except this devil was life-size and a real pain in the ass. The worst part was that Sam couldn't just make the guy disappear.

"Not now?" the devil asked. He sat down on Sam's bed and made himself comfortable. "I think this is a perfect time. I mean, look at that." He pointed at the tv. According to the reporter, there had to be more than a hundred casualties, though hard numbers had not yet been provided. "They found the one place they shouldn't find. Do you think your brother could be one of those casualties? It is possible."

Sam refused to believe it. It would take more than that to kill Dean. Besides, those were provisory numbers – there may currently be ten, or twenty. Anything could still happen.

"You know, I wonder what would've happened if you were there?"

Stop it. Sam didn't want to imagine it. He knew what he was capable of – he never wanted to be in that kind of position again.

"You know I'm right," the devil continued. "If you were there, you could've easily killed everyone."

Everyone. His devil did not specify that he could've killed the intruders, the enemy. If Sam was set loose, he could have wiped everyone, friend and foe, off the face of the earth. And his mind wandered back to the place where it began.

No. Not now! Any other time was better than now.

But his mind insisted, with a little pushing from the devil. It had been so long since he returned there mentally. Everything was stressful now, he was feeling a lot of feelings, and he could no longer turn his back on this day.

Sam led a small expedition, consisting of himself, Cole Trenton, and Jo and Ellen Harvelle, to what the resistance believed to be a small angel depository that was no longer in use. The depository was located on the outskirts of the city – just far enough so the people wouldn't come too close and close enough for the angels to still control its surroundings. On the outside, it was run-down, has looked like it would collapse for the past ten years, and it is said there's a horrible stench. Yet that was where Sam and his team were going.

It was only a recon mission – go to the building, explore it, don't touch anything, and come back and report on anything of notice. It would only take a day, maximum two days, to complete these relatively simple tasks. They were qualified enough to go and didn't have too many other current responsibilities; if something did come up, Dean would take care of it.

Since the run-down house was not connected to the electricity grids, there was no warmth and no light. No way of seeing any possible boobytraps or angels that lingered around. Still, through the natural light, they noticed the inside was well taken care of. It was immaculate, and not a bigger difference with the outside shell could exist. Despite this pristine state, there was nothing of value, monetary or else. They found old tech, old designs for the angel blades, and nothing new. After a quick look around, they determined nothing could help the resistance in any way, so they decided to go back to the bunker.

Cole accidentally broke an old vase-like box. If it was a box; Sam never saw it when it was whole, but the sound reminded him of a breaking vase. The four turned to the shards as it shattered and saw a shockwave being released from its center. It knocked them off their feet and threw them to the ground. Sam got up first, and black smoke rising from the shards passed through him.

He still could not understand what exactly had happened, or what the purpose of the case was, or how all of this even was possible. He just knew that vase was his Pandora's box. A strange force, a warm feeling took over his body. Sam lost control; Cole and Ellen stood up, he killed them. He strangled Ellen. He smote Cole – the first sign that he was no longer human. Jo surprised him, but he got her, too. Her worst nightmares danced in the forefront of her mind and knocked her out. Sam would have killed her, too, if he hadn't been able to regain control.

He stayed at the house, remained in shock for at least half an hour. He stared at his hands and the result of his actions. A shadow was just out of sight, ever-present, a shadow he didn't want to pay attention, too.

Dean called. There had come no update, he was worried. It snapped Sam out of the daze and he told Dean what happened. To keep Dean and Bobby at the bunker in case of an emergency, Sam went home. He carried the bodies to the truck they'd taken; Jo lay on the backseat. Sam drove to the bunker, with the shadow on the seat next to him.

Nobody but Dean and Bobby knew what happened; there were rumors, but the truth remained hidden. Bobby worried about the powers Sam had displayed – Cole's burned-out eyes confirmed as much – and Dean showed only support, though he too worried. The decision to go to the hospital came from Sam, not even a month later.

The downwards spiral came gradually. It started with normalizing the shadow's presence. It continued with strange visions. Sam brushed it off as his conscience being hard on him and his paranoia being permanently turned up to eleven. At that time, Sam believed an angel had been there and did his evil deeds. The angel had altered his memory, he believed. But more strange things happened around him and Sam's paranoia shone through the cracks. Dean became increasingly concerned as Sam slept less and less, as he was slowly losing his mind and normalized his situation. As if it had never been different.

Leaving was better for everyone – he nearly killed someone he believed to be an angel (they weren't) with his newfound abilities. Sam left the resistance and Dean told the members Sam had quit for the sake of his sanity. Since the mission, he dared not to call himself sane and neither would the people he used to work with.

His mind could not be trusted. Whatever truly happened that night, the result now glared at him and grinned widely at the news the resistance was done for.

"You've got to realize, Sammy," he said, "they really could have used your help."

Ignoring him as Sam's go-to method. It usually worked. Unfortunately, when he was in this kind of turmoil, it was harder to ignore his devil;

"You know, you could still help them," he continued. "Your brother's in there. He could still be alive. Or not. But can you live with yourself knowing you had the power to help and chose not to do anything?"

One of the worst parts of this devil being around was that he usually spoke the truth and the darker thoughts that sprung from Sam's mind. They were his inspiration, or he planted them in Sam's mind. Either way, they were connected and the devil used it against Sam whenever he could.

Sam looked at the screen, not even glancing away. The devil goaded him from behind, whining and nagging to the breaking point. There already were cracks; his annoying voice in combination with the news report and all those implications (only the worst) ere enough in his state of distress. Control slipped away.

Sam breathed in – energy gathered within him. He breathed out – the energy set itself in him. It nestled in his body, ready for release. It was not building because Sam wanted it; Sam didn't want it to be released. The last time that energy got free, he burned Cole's eyes and maybe soul out of his body. But Sam couldn't stop it; that was something he was not in control of.

The devil stood just within his line of sight, in the corner of his eye. He'd folded his arms and smiled approvingly. it was disgusting how delighted he was with the pure, nearly uncontrollable power.

"What are you holding back for?" The devil said. "Let it go and do it."

_Do it._

No. he was not going to le the devil control him. He wouldn't let the devil get his way.

Sam relaxed his body and lay down in the bed, staring at the ceiling. The thought of Dean and Bobby and their fear of his powers was enough. Even if it wasn't, he would make it work. The energy did subside, could not act upon its destructive powers. It was nauseating when the energy wasn't released, but Sam preferred nausea over losing control.

The devil shook his head in genuine disappointment. "I really thought you'd do it this time. Oh well." He shrugged and sighed. "Next time, though. I bet you'll give in next time."

"Shut up," Sam whispered between gritted teeth.

His devil shut up. He had granted Sam some peace, but Sam couldn't tell whether he'd listened or just shut up and left on its own accord.

Sam used the moment to crawl under the sheets. He was not sleepy; he'd just woken up again. Dinner was supposed to come soon; or not – sometimes, they saw him sleep and left the meal for when he had woken up again. If Sam slept, it meant he was having a good day and since he didn't sleep all that much to begin with, they just let him be.


	23. Turning

Today was a really good day.

Zachariah had informed Michael about the raid on the resistance. They easily penetrated their defenses and from there, everything became even easier. The guards were overwhelmed, the guests carried relatively no weapons and those who tried to engage the angels in close-quarter combat did not stand a chance. If some fled, it did not matter as most of them were killed and others were captured. Those who fled had their morale crushed to an all-time low.

Half of the high-ranking members who were present were confirmed to have died; the others were still at large. Their informant had told the angels one group had left on a mission and some wouldn't be at the party; nobody told him where those people had gone or were. They hadn't died, but they would be accounted for when they returned or showed their faces. According to their informant, they had managed to kill the leaders who attended – all but one. He described how the leaders looked, but his descriptions were so over the top and contained such flowery language, even when spoken, that none of the angels who heard it were even certain they killed those leaders.

Michael was content with the information Zachariah had provided. There was one thing, however, Zachariah had not mentioned yet and Michael did not even seem to think about either.

After informing Michael about the raid, Zachariah returned to his office and asked Uriel to come over. He needed to discuss with Uriel the fate of the fallen angel who had so foolishly chosen to side with the resistance.

After the raid, Zachariah had sent Uriel back to the site to verify whether Castiel had truly died. Uriel already had said Castiel was bleeding out on the resistance floor and had fallen unconscious, but Zachariah was not satisfied. He needed to know whether Castiel still had a pulse. Having Uriel go back to check it out would verify this. Zachariah, being so high up the hierarchy, would not be seen in the ruins if he could send someone else.

It did not take long before Uriel presented himself before Zachariah. There was no emotion on his face, but a fierceness in his eyes. He did not take a seat; Zachariah did not invite him to. This visit did not warrant his guest sitting down.

"Uriel," Zachariah said. He stared at the angel without blinking. "Did you check the premises?"

Uriel convincingly nodded once. "I have."

"Is Castiel dead?"

"Yes." Uriel stared right at Zachariah. "He's gone."

A grin broke on Zachariah's face. "Excellent."

He stepped from behind his desk to congratulate Uriel. It was a shame Castiel could not have been convinced to return, but his death was now something to be celebrated. Uriel seemed to want to leave as quickly as possible. Zachariah did not mind. He had done a great job the past few days and deserved some time off.

While Uriel's work was done, Zachariah's was far from over. He had a resistance pest to take care of.

More specifically, he had the only resistance leader they captured to deal with. This leader was currently in the basement, held in such an uncomfortable position only unconsciousness would bring rest. It was hot at times, cold at others, all regulated by Zachariah, to create the most discomfort possible for their prisoner.

Zachariah smiled in glee when he saw the resistance leader in this discomfort. He glared daggers at the angels and it seemed Zachariah's presence was an even bigger incentive to escape. He hung from the ceiling iron shackles attached to his wrists. They cut in his flesh and he clung his fists. The tips of his feet barely touched the freezing ground, barely able to stand to relieve his arms. Sweat dripped off his face and blood from previous beatings stuck to his skin, forming reddish-brown sickly patches.

The sight not only amused Zachariah, but he also pitied the boy. Zach knew angel blood ran through his veins. Sooner rather than later, his powers would be awakened. If his mentor had not dragged him into this senseless war, the angels would have welcomed him and his brother into their ranks. But they were too dangerous now and needed to be taken down.

"Hello," Zachariah said when the resistance leader, called Dean, had calmed down enough to carry a conversation. Dean did not respond; not yet. He stared in fury, almost daring the senior angel to let him out of those chains, to fight. It was foolish because Zachariah would win.

Zachariah sat down in the chair positioned in front of Dean, to taunt him rather than for personal comfort.

"I'm going to ask you a question, and you will answer," Zachariah proposed. Dean didn't say anything, so Zachariah considered the silence as consent to these rules. "Let's start with something easy. What is your name? Your full name?"

Dean spat at the ground before the angel. "Kiss my ass."

Zachariah shook his head in disappointment. He looked at the young leader. "You failed. I thought you were going to be honest with me, Dean."

This did not have the anticipated result. Dean did frown when he first heard his name, but this was not the shocked reaction Zachariah had been hoping for. Zachariah stared at him. "Aren't you curious about why I know your name?"

"Someone snitched," Dean responded. "I expected this. I don't blame them."

This was the lead-in that Zachariah needed. "But it must bother you to know that even within your little group of rebels, of confidants, you can't find true loyalty. You can't trust anyone."

"Neither can you," Dean retorted. "We're stealing your members. They'd rather we with us than be like you."

"They did not prevent you from being in your predicament," Zachariah said. He would not allow Dean to have any kind of upper hand. "What does this tell you about your angel?"

The tone was condescending. Dean chose not to answer – that was what Zachariah wanted. The silence allowed for Zachariah to lay out the rules of Dean's imprisonment.

"There are only two scenarios," Zachariah said in a menacing voice. "Either you play along and give us the information we need, or you resist and you will make things infinitely harder on yourself."

"I'm not afraid," Dean responded. He shifted from one foot to another.

"You will be when I'm done with you," Zachariah promised. Dean tried to thrust himself forward, to come closer to maybe kick him, but he didn't move much and it did not leave any kind of impression on Zachariah other than 'pathetic'.

"Fight me," Dean snarled. Zachariah grinned.

"With pleasure."

But not yet. One touch was enough to render Dean silent, and only two fingers to his sleep were all it took. However he struggled before, he did not stand a chance against the angel's abilities. With immediate contact, Dean fell asleep. It was the perfect example of why he and his resistance were failing, even if most of the leadership was out there and hopefully not united.

This did not matter now. Dean was asleep. It would stay that way for now, until Zachariah found the perfect way to extract information from Dean. Until he had thought of the right scenarios or words that would entice him.


	24. Not dead yet

The world was silent and dark, and Castiel floated somewhere in there. He painstakingly slowly regained feeling in his fingers, toes, limbs, torso. The wound Uriel inflicted on him was still numb, still healing. He slowly became aware he was not dead yet, that he somehow had managed to survive the attack. He did not think about how or why – he was still too weak to even remembered he had survived an angel attack.

The angels had left the ruins. Castiel was unaware the human corpses had been removed from the property. They had been burned or were thrown into a mass grave outside of the city limits. The angels did not give Castiel the same favor. A human resisting them deserved more respect than a fallen angel. So they left him to rot over time. None of them even checked his pulse, otherwise he wouldn't have been aware of the cold morning sun.

Two long days after the attack, he was conscious enough to act. His current position hurt. He rolled over. It wasn't any better, but it felt good to relieve his back for a little while.

Three hours later, he opened his eyes for only a few seconds after he heard something; possibly the wind that pushed some smaller debris and tugged his clothes. The sun shone in his eyes, blinded him. But he saw a chocolate bar lying a foot away from his face. He couldn't reach it yet. Not enough energy. He took note of it and drifted back into unconsciousness.

Castiel woke again at night. He opened his eyes. The chocolate bar was not a figment of his imagination. His stomach growled and realized how hungry he was. He moved his hand to take it. He couldn't – something was in the way.

A blanket lay over him. It was tucked in, so the wind would not blow it off of him. Castiel struggled to free his hand so he could fill his stomach. At long last, he grabbed the bar. The wrapping was intact – he'd have to open it himself, too.

He brought his other hand from under the blanket and tried to rip it open. His hands were weak; his energy and strength went to the still-healing wound. He was depleted, so weak he could barely open the packaging of a chocolate bar. But he continued.

The gravel moved, crisping closer. A shoe came into his field of vision and he frowned. He had not expected this. Castiel lifted his head.

It was Claire. She stared at him with disappointment. She kneeled next to him and gently took the chocolate bar from him. She easily opened the packaging and handed the food back to the angel.

"Thank you." He intended to say this, but his throat was too dry. She left as Castiel took his first bite. His stomach growled again, in anticipation of food.

After a few quick bites, he found he was too nauseous to finish it. He chewed l-slowly on the last bite, both longing for the food and dreading to swallow it. A headache developed – or it had always been there and Castiel only then noticed. Either way, his body was out of it and Castiel couldn't figure out how to fix it.

Claire returned with a bottle of water. Maybe that's why he had trouble swallowing – a dry throat was not pleasant. He forgot about the chocolate bar in his hand and stared at the bottle.

"Do you want some?" she asked. Castiel nodded to the best of his abilities. Claire slowly poured a small stream of water into Castiel's mouth. He greedily drank it and expected more, even when the bottle was empty. He had the taste for it, he needed more. Claire didn't look at him, though, but at something right behind him.

Claire left his view again. Instead of focusing on his own pain, Castiel tried to figure out what was happening behind his back.

Claire was talking. Someone else was, too – there were more than two people, and they were predominantly female voices. Castiel did not recognize any of the voices, couldn't even pick out Claire. They had to be sitting around some sort of campfire, because the dark wouldn't have given Castiel a shadow.

Claire was not alone. She had access to fire, blankets, water, food. She survived the massacre, probably because she hadn't attended and had enough means to survive without leaving the ruins for the time being. That was good, she deserved all the chances. But was it smart to stay on the spot where your friends died, where the angels could return to, to kill any survivors who returned?

As he was thinking, his mind wandered off and Castiel fell back asleep.

* * *

When Castiel woke up again, the sun was already shining. What little he ate yesterday, what little energy he gained from it, had healed his internal organs a little more, but it had not completely healed him. Yet, in his still semi-conscious state, Castiel believed he had sufficiently healed to do more things again. But for now, he was hungry. Hungry enough to move from his current position and get some.

He sat upright, in such a way that the blanket was still wrapped around him. From his new position, he noticed he had not imagined Claire being here with other survivors. The conversations were silenced as soon as they noticed he was awake.

Claire sat with three friends around a dying fire. Two of them were around her age, the other was older. The girls seemed as tough as Claire had presented herself; both seemed excellent women of color, both glared at him. The lady, a blonde in a police uniform, glared more harshly than the girls. Claire must've told them about his identity.

"I'm sorry," Castiel croaked. "I didn't mean to startle you."

His voice was a little better – the women could understand what he was trying to say. Still, his throat was dry and needed more water, or at least needed to practice talking a little. That may also help him get rid of the croak.

"I'd like some food and water, please," Castiel then said when there came no reaction from any of the women. "If you can spare some."

For a moment, none of them did anything. Then Claire stood up. She grabbed a bottle of water and a chocolate bar, laying behind her, and threw them at the angel. He was not able to catch them, but they landed within reach.

"Thank you," he said. He reached for the bottle and downed it in almost one go. The thirst once again increased tenfold when the first drop of water fell into his mouth and he could barely stop himself.

"I wouldn't drink too much at once," Claire advised him. "It might just come right back out."

Her comment made Castiel more cautious. In his state, his metabolism may not appreciate his overindulgence in water. It was always better not to overdo it/

"No strange moves," the blonde lady warned in an accent Castiel was not familiar with. "I'm keeping my eyes on ya."

"Noted," Castiel said. He took a bite off the chocolate bar. It somehow tasted wrong, but he didn't complain; food was food and he was shoving it in.

As he ate his chocolate, he looked at the girls. None of them were very willing to help him. Only Claire was willing to provide something, but Castiel figured that as soon as he could move around on his own, this help would be soon over as well. They could use these resources themselves, but they willingly – more, begrudgingly – shared it with Castiel. That struck him as odd.

"Why are you helping me?" he bluntly asked between bites. The woman may not have expected the question or had an answer at the ready. But the answer did come.

"You're with the enemy. But right now, you're a victim, too," Kaia said. Castiel had heard their names before, but he hadn't been able to assign them to faces. Still, he wasn't very confident this was Kaia, he just hoped he was right.

"I'm not with—" Castiel paused. Where did they get that idea from? "Would I be here in this state, if I still worked with them?"

"Someone snitched," Alex said. She warily looked at him. "It could've been you."

That wasn't the case. Even if he could, he still didn't know where exactly the base was located. "I haven't been in touch with them since the warehouse. I don't want them in my life."

The women cast suspicious glances. In their minds, he just confessed to committing suspicious activities and spying for the angel. It must be confusing that in the same breath, he denounced them and implicitly declared his allegiance to the resistance these women were a part of. It seemed they focused on the negative aspects.

"I will admit I made questionable decisions and did questionable things in favor of the angels, but I never told them where this place is." Castiel never had the chance to betray them. "But I realized my mistakes and I'm willing to learn from them."

"And you expect us to believe that?" Donna asked. She believed he was spouting lies, that he gave the angel leadership their location. Why would they attack? Because he had no further use to them and so, they tried to silence him forever. It didn't work because he was much more resilient than first thought and because Claire helped him eventually.

Her question was answered with silence. Castiel took another bite from the chocolate bar, eyeing each of the girls to gauge their reaction.

"I believe you," Claire then said. Castiel raised his eyebrows. This was a welcome surprise.

"You can't be serious," Alex exclaimed. Claire turned her head.

"Yes, I believe him." They stared at one another intensely. "If he says he didn't do those things, then he didn't do it."

Castiel nodded his head to Claire. "Thank you for your support." He could use every bit of support right now, especially since a sharp pain in his abdomen signaled it hadn't been completely healed yet. Castiel lay down on his side to lighten the load.

The other women were still hesitant. It would be a lot harder to convince them of his innocence. Maybe, if they listened, they may agree with his plans for the near future. It may convince them of his true allegiance and they may offer their support and hopefully, their help.

"If you're still on the fence, I am planning to infiltrate the angel headquarters when I'm feeling better."

The women did not know what they expected the fallen angel to say next, but this was not something that they had expected.

"What?" Kaia reacted. The others just stared in shock. Claire may seem terrified at the thought. Either that or Castiel misidentified the degree of shock she was in. he did not know what caused the shock – his calmness or his words.

"I know where it is," Castiel said. "I know where I can find the leadership. With some luck, I'll be able to stop them." Or he would set an example. Whether this example would be positive or negative was something he didn't know.

"That's impossible," Alex said. Her serious tone and resigned look said enough. There was a high chance Castiel was not going to make it out of the angel HQ alive if he entered it.

"Has anyone ever tried?" Castiel wondered out loud. The women remained quiet, but they knew the answer. So did Castiel. "I'll be the first, then." And when he came to the angel headquarters, he imagined himself arriving with his head up high, his angel blade in his hand and rage in his eyes. he walked in and if anyone came towards him to fight, he would fight back – only if they attacked or intended to first. Only Uriel, Zachariah and Michael would be attacked unprovoked. He also imagined himself stepping through the door and counting the minutes, seconds to his death.

"If you wanted to die, why didn't ya say so?" Donna asked, truly curious about the motivation behind his suicidal mission. Castiel shrugged.

"The angels need to see me," he said. "The people, too. They need to understand we won't stop fighting, no matter what. If I go there, nobody will be able to ignore it. They'll see it."

A fallen angel attacking the headquarters in favor of the resistance and a more democratic world, for a world where angel rule was greatly diminished – the press wouldn't be able to ignore this. Some free spirits would take note and try something else. Some who were more cautious would grow even more cautious. His actions would have varying consequences, based on his success rate.

"You'll die," Alex said.

"Most likely," Castiel responded. His sigh was one of a soldier tired of fighting a war that lasted an eternity and longer. He was tired, he was done, but he couldn't stop now.

"Why would you want that?" Kaia wondered. "Why not just run and never come back. Live to your natural death."

"I am nobody," Castiel said. "I do not belong to any group. That was different, part of an evil group. Might as well make sure my life led to something good. "

* * *

The next morning, Castiel was able to stand on his feet again. It was a great accomplishment to him, and he did not care that every few steps he lost his balance. At least he was somewhat mobile again.

Kaia, Alex, and Donna were happy about his newfound mobility, too. They were mostly concerned with having to take care of him for any prolonged amount of time. But Castiel rested and the remnants of the wounds had been fully healed. Only some numbness remained, one that resembled his intestines and stomach not agreeing with him, but all outside and inside wounds were gone.

Despite the limited mobility, Castiel prepared to go on his quest to kill the higher-ups of the angels. He stocked on food and water the group could spare and stuffed it into the pockets of some coat lying around. It was dirty, but it was in better shape than most clothes retrieved from under the ruins.

When it was almost time to leave, Claire came to him. They were silent for a couple of moments. Castiel knew she was feeling sadness, melancholy, loss – she and her friends had given up on him, were convinced that he was going towards his death. He had to agree with her.

"Are you really going to the angel HQ now?" Claire then asked.

"Not immediately," Castiel responded. "I will first visit Crowley, another fallen angel. He's been working together with Dean."

He didn't need Crowley to join him in his crusade. Castiel did believe it would be an ideal situation if something or someone powerful enough would distract some militia on the lower levels, so that Castiel would more easily reach the higher-ups without being dead seconds after walking through the front door.

"Do you know where he is?" Claire wondered.

"I can find him," Castiel said while making eye contact.

Claire tilted her head. "You don't know."

Castiel shrugged. "I can find him." Crowley couldn't be that hard of a person to find. If they asked for him on the streets, someone would notice and Castiel would almost instantaneously be brought to the man he'd been looking for.

"And you're going to ask him to help you?" Claire asked, a skeptical tone in her voice. She did not believe someone would risk their lives to help one angel reach a nearly impossible goal. Especially if he asked another fallen angel.

"If he can create a diversion to help me last longer inside the building, that would be enough." Then Crowley could leave, since Castiel could not force him to stick around. He could get time and support, but not physical participation.

Silence followed, during which neither Claire nor Castiel looked at one another. Claire took a deep breath and turned her head to him.

"You know there are other ways to continue the fight, right?"

Castiel nodded. "I know." He then looked at Claire. "I need a resolution. They took everything from me, nearly killed me twice. I found you and they almost took that, too. And they're doing this to many others. I cannot allow them to continue like this for much longer." If Castiel did not do anything about it, he would just wither away, suffer, and wish he had taken action sooner. He would not be able to forgive himself for such negligence.

"Then I'm in," Claire said. "I'll help you."

Castiel nodded at her. "Thank you." While he didn't completely agree, he had no authority over her. She made her own decisions and Castiel could not stop her.

The conversation didn't end there. Something still needed to be said, something Claire could no longer carry on her own.

"I don't know if you would like to know, but I, er…" She paused. "If you'd like, I can tell you your name."

At first, Castiel did not respond at all. He only blinked a couple of times, trying to process what was just said. Then, he shook his head.

"Not yet."

"No?" Claire asked. "Why not?"

"I haven't earned it back," Castiel told her. This was not the right time. "I'm no longer that person. I would say the name has no meaning, but it does hold value. Yes, I'd like to know, but not yet. Maybe after I kill Michael and Zachariah."

"That's a deal," Claire said. They shook each other's hands to seal the deal. "So, where do you think this Crowley is hiding out?"

"I don't know," Castiel said. He was convinced they'd find him. "I guess we'll have to look around."

And Castiel and Claire looked at one another and at that moment, they must have reconnected. After that moment, he felt like he was a father again. A shitty father, but a father nonetheless. And she was his daughter because she had accepted him back into her life.

It was good to know at least she was on his side.


	25. Angels and Demons

Castiel did not know where he could find Crowley. He knew Crowley was somewhere in the city, but he had no address. But Crowley was a powerful man and even mentioning his name to the street might attract his attention, if not elicit a reaction in the people that have heard his name and had a hard time suppressing their first reaction. And the word might go around that someone was looking for him. And Crowley might just show himself.

Luckily, he had some help. Claire wanted to help him out, which he was grateful for. Unfortunately, this help had not helped him out on the streets. So far, he only had people walking away from him as soon as he mentioned the name or telling him off, saying he should not want to know or that he should be careful, or saying him it should not be his business.

He had not had any luck with the latest person he talked to, which was an old lady. Castiel had thanked her, for she genuinely did not seem to know Crowley and he did not want to keep her occupied for longer than necessary. He remained on the street along with Claire and looked around. The few people who were outside on this street had already been questioned.

This was the fourth street where they had asked. This was the fourth street that yielded no result. While Castiel knew it was going to take time to get to Crowley, he was starting to get impatient. He needed to fulfill his plan, he didn't want to waste time on the streets. He wanted to go to angel HQ and finish it. But not without Crowley's help.

"Is this really the best way to go about it?" Claire asked. She would prefer to look for Crowley instead of asking people where he might be.

"I believe it is."

"None of them know Crowley. They're too afraid."

"I am aware," Castiel said, "but when his name is mentioned, others listen." Their nervous looks and anxious behavior proved as much. When these people turned around, others were watching and listening to every word that was said.

"Really?"

"We will not be able to walk to his house and knock on the front door," Castiel said. "Someone in his employ will have to take us to him."

"What?" She had not expected this answer and thus, was not prepared for this method. She feared the goons may be too hands-on and wouldn't take them to Crowley.

"He is a secretive man," Castiel explained. "He's on the angel hitlist. He does not want to be found." He still searched for others to talk to. "If we want to talk to him, he needs to want to talk to us. That's why I believe this will draw his attention."

"So we can reach him," Claire finished Castiel's thoughts, and he nodded.

"Correct."

And so, they continued their quest to draw attention to themselves looking for Crowley, so they could finally speak to him. They went to three more streets and many more conversations later, they found someone who was not afraid to discuss Crowley.

"Follow me," the man they had approached said. "I can give you more information."

Castiel and Claire shared a look and followed the man. He led them down several streets, in the direction of a black van. On their left, there was a dead-end that reeked of rotten eggs, coming from the loaded dumpsters. Two men stepped out of the van and the man Castiel and Claire had talked to now blocked their way back.

They did not speak. They cuffed Castiel and Claire and pulled a bag over their heads. Castiel allowed this to happen while Claire did not like this approach and resisted it. Either way, she and Castiel were ushered into the black van. The motor started soon after and they drove out of the neighborhood, presumably on their way to Crowley.

* * *

They drove for what Castiel estimated to be half an hour, going everywhere and nowhere. They made many twists and turns to the left and right, no way of knowing where exactly Crowley's hide-out was based on the starting location of the van.

Someone grabbed Castiel and Claire – she did not resist this time – and made them exit the van. Castiel almost hit the ground. They were told not to speak, while the world around them was silent. They crossed the street, stepped onto a sidewalk into a house that must be old. The air inside was musty (the windows were probably never opened) and the small stairs creaked dangerously. On the top floor, the flooring was also creaking, though not as much as the stairs. They were made to sit on uncomfortable wooden chairs. Their arms were placed behind the chair and tied down. Crowley would take no risks with their prisoners.

At long last, the bags were taken off of their heads. They were blinded by a bright light shining directly on them. Two buff men stood on either side of Castiel and Claire, to ensure they wouldn't try anything funny. Once their eyes were adjusted to the light, they could see the room, the attic from which many operations were lead. A desk with a long chair stood in the center of the attic with no windows. This attic was decorated in a dark style that seemed too expensive to fit into a house that was as old as the creaking staircase suggested.

Even the door creaked when it opened. A man with black hair in a black suit walked in, an indifferent look on his face. He strolled closer to his prisoners, his hands in his pockets. When he approached, Castiel sensed the energy coming from him. This was definitely Crowley.

"I've heard you were looking for me," Crowley said. He was not impressed. This might be part of a routine, interrogating people who were looking for him, the way he seemed so used to this. He did not specifically look at either Claire or Castiel, but he did wait for an explanation.

"We need your help," Castiel said. Before he could explain the situation, Crowley interrupted.

"Evidently," he said. "Otherwise the likes of you wouldn't be here." He sat down behind his desk and from this position, he stared at his visitors. Mostly at Castiel – he must be sensing the same energy that Castiel had sensed in him. If he'd followed the news, he'd know Castiel should not be alive anymore, and neither should any resistance member.

But they were alive, so Crowley may be interested.

"Tell me," Crowley asked, "what do you want from me?"

"We need you to be a distraction," Claire responded before Castiel could provide the necessary information. Castiel shot a glance at her and then looked at Crowley, who was just staring in surprise.

"Really?" he sounded amused and interested. His indifference from before seemed to have melted away. "I suppose there's more to it than a distraction."

Castiel nodded. "You just need to be the distraction. I plan to storm the angels' headquarters and preferably kill Michael and Zachariah."

What little interest he had faded away. He stood up and stared Castiel in the eye, only disappointment on his face.

"Let me give you some free advice," he said. "You don't want to fight. It will result in your death."

The advice probably stemmed from the fact that they had both fallen and lived long enough not to be converted back or to be killed by the people they would have once called their family. Castiel nodded when he heard this.

"I am well aware of the consequences," Castiel said. He hoped his confidence would convince Crowley somehow. "You cannot talk me out of it. This is something that I have to do. You could—"

"Shut up," Crowley interrupted Castiel. Castiel promptly shut his mouth and waited for Crowley's answer. With one look at Claire, Castiel noticed the doubt in her eyes.

Crowley leaned in closer towards them and stared at them.

"I will not assist you in your suicide mission," Crowley announced, "I have better things to do."

Castiel tried to stand up before Crowley could leave the room. Crowley's henchman pushed him down and forced him to remain seated.

"You have the power to help overthrow the angels," Castiel said. He was not angry, just curious and disappointed by Crowley's choices. "Why aren't you doing anything?"

"Why do you think I've survived so bloody long?"

Castiel was unable to answer, though the answer was clear.

"See them out," Crowley then said. He turned his back to him and Claire and while he walked out of the room, his henchmen pulled the bags over Castiel and Claire's heads. They untied the prisoners and lead them back into the van.

* * *

Castiel and Claire were thrown out on a sidewalk. The handlers pulled the bags off of their heads, uncuffed them and then drove away again. The van had no license plate to remember and soon it was gone, leaving Castiel and Claire to pick up the pieces.

They hadn't been in this street before – to minimize the risk of being found out, they were just dropped off somewhere that was not where they had been picked up. Life moved on in the street; some people shot distrustful looks in their direction, but they did not approach nor did they stare for too long. Not their problem. They did not know Claire and Castiel had been rejected by Crowley.

But their plans were not going to change in the slightest.

"What do we do now?" Claire asked. Castiel already had time to think about this. It had a simple answer, one Castiel had kept in mind just in case Crowley would reject them, as just happened.

"You're not going in there without back-up, are you?" Claire then wondered. He shook his head in response.

"I have a plan B."

"Well, what is it?"

"More of a last resort," Castiel responded. He turned his head to Claire. "Come on. We're going to the hospital."


	26. Extraction

Dean walked down a familiar street. The neighbors greeted him as he passed by. Everyone knew everyone here, and everyone was friendly towards one another. It sometimes made Dean feel sick, but he had to admit this friendliness was infectious, especially given the circumstances.

Dean was going home.

It was a small house, right in the middle of the city. Right in the middle of the street, in a neighborhood where the houses were terraced, placed into neat rows with no space between the houses. Each home had the same basic structure, inside and out, and only the creativity of the people who lived there could give each house a personal touch.

Dean reached his home and rang the doorbell – it was a mistake to leave his key when he'd left. Luckily, he didn't have to wait long before the door was opened.

It was Sam. He looked so carefree, as if the weight of the world wasn't lying on this shoulder. It was so good to see him again after all this time. Dean did not even know why this thought had crept into his mind. He'd only been gone for a weekend and even then, not that far. Still, it felt like an eternity had passed since Dean left.

"Hiya, Sammy," he said. It was good to say that.

Dean couldn't stop himself – he stepped forward and grabbed his brother, holding him in a tight hug. Sam gladly reciprocated.

"It's good to see you, Dean, Sam said before they let go of one another and looked at each other. Damn, Dean had seriously missed Sam – it really had not been so long! He never knew he would ever be able to miss someone so deeply.

"There you are," a third voice chimed in. Dean and Sam turned their heads to their mother. Her blonde hair reached her chest and her smile was wide and beautiful. She had aged phenomenally, looking as young as she had been when Dean was a little boy.

"Hi, Mom," Dean said weakly, staring at her, almost unable to believe his eyes. Was this really the moment he would reflect on everything that came before, the moment realized he was happy with the life he was leading and wouldn't want it any other way? Quite random.

"Come on," she said. "Dinner's ready."

Their conversation continued in the dining room. Mary had prepared their dinner and Dean had timed his return perfectly with the dinner being served. The table had been made, the pots and plates placed on the table. The only thing Dean needed to do was to sit down and eat what would definitely be another delicious meal.

"So," Mary began once everyone was seated. She looked at Dean expectantly. "How was the hunting trip?"

Dean nodded. What was there to say? "It was good. My friends caught a lot. I couldn't even catch a duck."

"Really?" Sam said in a teasing tone. He couldn't believe that's why Dean came home empty-handed, yet it was completely credible and plausible. A grin broke on Sam's face – that was where Dean drew the line.

"Don't you laugh," Dean said. "You wouldn't catch anything, too, if they kept shouting in your ear and scaring everything away." Whenever Dean almost caught something, his friends thought it'd be funny to scare it, to make loud noises and wildly move. In the end, Dean managed to catch one fish. Though only because Dean caught it when he was alone, at the lake, in the middle of the night when the others were asleep. It gave him the validation he needed, especially since every other opportunity was taken away from him.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Sounds like fun." He then focused on his food, so that Mary may continue the conversation.

"What were their names again?" she asked, a serious look on her face. Dean turned his head to her and shot her a confused look.

"You know their names." Hadn't he told her already? She should know these things. He vaguely remembered telling her who they were and, more specifically, their names.

"Didn't you go with your new friends?"

"Yeah?" So? He had been gone for only a weekend. He was certain he had told Sam and Mary who he had gone with, just in case something were to happen. No, Dean was certain she should be able to remember his friends' names, if only some of them.

"It's nothing serious," Mary said. A smile appeared on her face. "I just want to know who they are."

"Dean." Sam joined the conversation again. "What are their names?"

Dean frowned. Something was not right here. Sam should know those names. Why ask if he could say it himself? His words, as well as his tone and demeanor, did not suggest support for his mother – it suggested he, too, wanted to know the names and wanted Dean to tell him. Two people who should know wanted to know. Dean leaned back in his chair. This was not right.

"Dean, are you okay?" Mary asked. She placed her hand on his shoulder and softly squeezed it.

This touch did not feel right, either. It did not make sense. Dean watched her smile and realized that she truly had not aged at all. She wore the same clothes that she wore when Dean had last seen her, before the fire consumed her and their home. And Sam couldn't be here, too. He was in the hospital, receiving help for his issues.

If Mary was here and Sam was, then Dean could not be here. This was not the world he grew up in. This was a picture-perfect scene that only existed in his mind, one he had pondered about sometimes.

"This ain't real."

* * *

The transition was abrupt and painful. Throbbing pain from wounds inflicted by Zachariah returned immediately and hurt immensely. The chains on his wrists cut and strained him, his arms screamed from the muscle aches. The tips of his toes barely provided relief. Sweat dripped off of his head and clung to his forehead. But this was all worth it – Zachariah watched him with a confused expression on his face. Dean had not given him what he wanted. Dean wasn't going to give up these names willingly, not even to his mother. The triumph and Zachariah's confusion brought a weak smile to Dean's face.

"You need to come up with something better than that," Dean said with a croaky voice. Zachariah's options were running out. Straight up torturing did not help at all, and trapping Dean in his mind was equally bad. It hurt and was mentally hard, but Zachariah could not hunt down the people who survived the attack on the bunker.

"I don't understand," Zachariah said. He shook his head. "You used to tell your mother everything."

"When I was a kid," Dean responded. "You should find better scenarios to put me in." Zachariah frowned when the smile on Dean's face grew wider.

"Is this a joke to you?" Zachariah came closer and clenched his fist.

"So long as you keep blundering through my torture, yes," he responded. The smile had now left his face. This was still a serious situation, a place where he may lose his life defending resistance secrets.

"I will get what I want," Zachariah reminded him. "One way or the other."

Dean nodded. "Of course you will." He would not deny they could break him. With the right method, there was a real chance he may give up. "Maybe after a couple of months."

Zachariah could not appreciate the comment and his face darkened. Dean could almost see the gears in his head turning, trying to find the right buttons to push and the right words with which he could accomplish this.

"I've seen you around many times," Zachariah said. "I've studied your actions. I know how you work, and I know what you will try to get out of here. I can see myself in you. In the end, we are not that different."

"We're nothing alike."

"Shut up, Winchester."

Zachariah was not supposed to know this name. It was known only to Dean, Bobby, and Sam.

Dean recalled an early encounter at Bobby's. It was the first time he had seen Bobby pull a gun on someone. He, little Sammy and his father had come to Bobby's house after their own burned down. They had left their mother behind. Dean could not fall asleep in the spare bedroom, while baby Sam slept peacefully in his crib. Dean did not want to go to sleep, so he exited the room to go downstairs, where Bobby and his father would be.

They were still downstairs, in the kitchen. While the hallway was dark, light shone in the kitchen, a light that spilled into the hallways through a crack, created by the door standing slightly ajar. He wanted to be comforted, to be told everything was okay, but the conversation on the other side of the door stopped him.

"I didn't think you could do that! How could you?" Bobby raised his voice, but he did not yell as loudly as he could so as not to disturb Sam and Dean. He was not aware Dean crept to the door to listen and peak through.

"I didn't, either," Dean's father said. He stood just out of frame and his voice was soft, calm. Too calm.

"You son of a bitch." Bobby nearly spat. Everything in his demeanor betrayed fury. "Are you aware of the consequences? What about the kids?"

"That's why I came here," his father said. He took a step closer to Bobby; he was still not visible. "They'll be good here. I know you'll do them right."

"I never asked for this."

"Neither have I."

Bobby shrugged out of despair. "So that's it. You're just going to leave them behind."

"I have to leave. I will either go to the angels or I don't." A pause came. Dean could not see what his father was doing, but Bobby glanced at the rifle on the table. "It can end here and now. You want to do it, I can see it in your eyes. I'm giving you one chance. Your only chance. Make it count."

Bobby, without taking his eyes off of John Winchester, took the rifle from the table and took aim. Dean was frozen, unable to make any noise or to try to stop Bobby. For a while, it looked like Bobby was actually going to shoot. But he lowered the gun and shook his head. Dean breathed in relief.

"I guess I'll leave now," John said. "I hoped you would do it."

That was the last time Dean had seen or heard his father. Bobby later explained everything without sugarcoating the truth. For their own protection, they moved around a lot and were given new names each time. Their original last name, Winchester, was only a vague memory, something that existed within their minds. Dean always had treated his names as something trivial, something to discard when danger arose, as if it wasn't important, to keep himself from getting attached to a certain name, like Winchester.

Zachariah knew the name. he couldn't have extracted that from his mind.

Dean's eyes widened in shock – this couldn't be.

"You…" He couldn't say anything else. He felt like the four-year-old who thought he was about to lose his father. He wanted not to believe it, but now the thought and truth were planted in his head, it was hard to discard.

And Zachariah grinned. The crack in Dean's defense, brought about by accident, helped by the earlier slip of the tongue. He had successfully gotten some information out of his oldest son.

"Now we're getting somewhere."


	27. Willing volunteer

The world has grown a little quieter the past five days, and it seemed they lost a little more color. Sam did not have energy and lay on his bed most of the day. He did not even try to get up and walk around, to have at least a little exercise. Since the first day, the devil on his shoulder had been more talkative than ever, not allowing Sam to have a single moment of peace.

"You know what you should do?" the devil said. "Decorate the room."

Sam rolled over. He did not directly look at the devil. Maybe looking at him would help a little. It did not.

"I mean, you've been here for what, three years now? And since you're not going home anytime soon, you might as well put up some paintings. Get a nice fruit basket over there, maybe some chains and skulls. You could also rip the door out, it will make you feel more at home, won't it, Sammy?"

Sam could feel the devil's eyes in his back. Even in this position, in which he could not see his devil, he was still a presence. He appeared in front of Sam, who closed his eyes so that he would not have to see his devil. He sighed.

"Y'know, these conversations would be so much better if you just talked as well. It's pretty boring otherwise."

Sam pressed his hands against his ears.

"Talk to me, Sam," the devil nagged. "You know you want to."

He did not want to. He did not want to do anything, not with the current stress and his devil adding fuel to the fire.

A noise came from the hallway, noise Sam did not pay any attention to. Then his door opened and he was not alone anymore, his visitors demanding his attention with their extra noise.

Three people entered his hospital. One of them was Meg, the nurse who was with the resistance, and she tried to stop the other two from entering. From these two, the male looked familiar. He had been one of the last people to bring him Dean's latest message. He still emitted the same energy, the only angel Dean may trust. The girl looked like the angel, but she was younger and determined. Sam looked at her and wondered whether she would become like the angel and develop angel powers.

"You cannot just enter this room," Meg said strictly. There was fury in her eyes, but Castiel and Claire were not intimidated.

"We need to talk to him," Castiel said.

"Oh, dear," the devil chimed in. He watched the scene with delight. "We've got company."

"This is a restricted area," Meg said. She was fierce and would never let anyone into the room who hadn't asked her permission beforehand. Resistance guidelines she had promoted to rules.

"Look." Castiel sighed. "We just want to ask him a question. We're not here to hurt him."

Sam believed it. If Dean trusted him enough to be the messenger, Sam would extend the same trust.

"Meg." She turned her head to him, everyone looked at him expectantly – even his devil stared in expectation.

Sam spoke in a calm and soft voice. "It's okay. They can stay."

"This is gonna be interesting," the devil said, smiling gleefully at the tension between Meg and the two visitors, and maybe at the possible reason why this fallen angel showed up at this moment.

Claire turned to Meg. "Can you leave? This is private."

"She can stay," Sam quickly said. "She's with us."

Claire glanced at Meg in disbelief. "Really?"

"Really," Meg said, a smug grin on her face. Claire rolled her eyes at it.

"So…" Sam then said. "What do you want to know?"

Claire looked at Castiel so that he could tell Sam about his plans.

"If you wish, you could help me take down the angels."

"That's very ambitious," the devil commented. He placed a finger on his chin and nodded thoughtfully. "Very life-threatening."

"We're going in through the front door," Castiel continued. "They will most likely notice us sooner or later. It's an all or nothing situation. If I'm not mistaken, you have a lot of power."

There it was. That was one of the reasons why Sam and Dean decided he would be better off in the hospital, away from those he could hurt, and from those who would want to use him for nefarious reasons. Though Castiel did not have such intentions.

Sam shook his head. However much he used to want to leave his room and see the outside world once again, not like this.

"It's too much," he said. "I killed my friends by accident."

"Now you get to kill your enemies," Claire said. Sam looked at her, disappointed.

"I came here so that I could control it." Bad things happened when he was not in control. Scenarios crossed his mind, of what would happen if he left the hospital and could keep his devil under control.

"Since we haven't heard of an incident in the hospital, you can keep it under control," Castiel assumed. Sam did not correct him. Under these circumstances, it was correct. Sam could not predict the same thing to happen under different circumstances.

"The angels have destroyed the bunker," Castiel continued in a calm voice. "They aren't expecting anyone to attack them now. It is our best chance to catch them off-guard and go the farthest. What do you say?"

"If you go, it'll lead to your death," the devil whispered in his ear.

Just this once, Sam agreed with the devil. If he joined Castiel and Claire, there was a big chance he would not be leaving. Even with the devil in control, there were too many angels that would gladly kill him.

"I'm in." What else could he do with his life? The resistance was gone, the angels seemed to have won. He did not know what happened to Dean, but five days after the act he still hadn't shown up or showed he was still alive. Sam may be all that's left, and he did not intend to wither away while the world grew darker every day. It was better to go out with a bang – and if the devil took over, so be it.

"Thank you," Castiel said. Both he and Claire were happy he hadn't turned them down.

"Are you serious?" Meg said indignantly. She couldn't believe the decision. "You need to think—"

"Meg," Sam interrupted her. "I know what I'm doing. I'm going."

Meg still did not like his decision. His devil, on the other hand, was delighted Sam finally was doing something that might end in a deadly and dire situation – something that could lead to his devil being able to control Sam's actions again.

"When do we start?" Sam asked.

"Tomorrow."

"And you just…"

"Walk through the front door," Castiel repeated, "And fight our way closer." Sam nodded.

"That sounds good," Sam said, "but I think there may be a better way to get deep into the headquarters."


	28. Storm the castle

Things have been quiet since the resistance had been put down. Of course there still were smaller groups and random individuals who decided they wanted to overthrow the angels through small actions, but they too have become quieter when they learned the resistance had been attacked and decimated.

Samandriel had been there. He had not done a lot compared to the more experienced angels, but he was nonetheless glad to have been invited for the fight of the century. He had been one of the first to take down a guard, a feisty redhead who did not want to give up so easily. But Samandriel was stronger and he'd killed the girl quicker than she could sound the alarm. It was a great experience, but he had to return to his nine-to-five job: guarding the main gate. He was one of the 'lucky few' tasked with guarding everything any resistance member would want to destroy.

But only angels knew where the headquarters were located. Even then, nobody was stupid enough to launch a full-on attack on the base. And so, guarding the building, while a noble cause, became a tedious chore during which nothing happened. Samandriel dreamed of a promotion that would take him away from the gate.

Nothing ever happened here. So when three people came to deliver a fallen angel, it was both the highlight of his career and so strange he wasn't certain whether they had come to the right address, or even whether he should let them in.

Samandriel sped to the door and opened it a little, just enough to look through. Two ladies and a young man had come to deliver the fallen angel Castiel. Samandriel had known him well – Castiel had been chosen over him for the spy job. Castiel did not look well, the wound in his stomach had closed and left a red circle and he only barely held it together. The three held on to him so he could not escape.

This was not the most incredible. The young man emitted a certain level of energy Samandriel had not felt in many angels. It could be pure angel energy, untouched and untamed, and therefore dangerous.

At the same time, Meg, Claire, and Sam knew Samandriel was an easy target, as Castiel had predicted.

"This is private property," Samandriel said. "What are you doing here?"

"You lost this angel, right?" Meg said.

"I… I guess so," Samandriel responded, a puzzled look on his face. "He's supposed to be dead." He had heard Uriel had put a blade between Castiel's ribs. Samandriel had been too busy taking out resistance members to witness it, but he, like the other angels, was convinced that Castiel had died. He truly was a tough one to get rid of. If only he'd stayed on the right track and hadn't allowed the resistance to corrupt him, he would have been great.

"He clearly isn't," Sam pointed out.

"We found him on the street like this," Claire said. "He's been healing, but he is unresponsive and it seems he's lost his mind."

Samandriel looked at the fallen angel. He didn't look right. Yes, the wound was healing, but there was no saying how his intestines were doing. Based purely on the dazed and absent look in Castiel's eyes, when he had them opened, it seemed his healing wasn't that strong yet and was still wasting his energy trying to get it to completely heal.

"Thank you," Samandriel said. "Your help is appreciated."

Samandriel took a step forward through an opened door, to take in Castiel to get rid of him for good. Meg moved a little closer to Samandriel and stood in his way.

"Don't we get a reward?"

"A reward?" His mind was racing and his gaze confused. Was there a reward? Did they have a system like this in place?

"He was still dangerous when we approached him," Meg said. "He attacked us."

"He slashed my elbow," Claire pointed out. She rolled up her sleeve and showed Samandriel a fresh scar she received during her latest scouting mission, something Samandriel couldn't verify.

"We risked our lives to bring you this angel," Sam said calmly to contrast with the brutality of the two girls. "Wasn't there a policy that states that if someone helps to bring fallen angels back to your organization, that they get a reward?"

Samandriel hesitantly looked at the group. He did not feel like doing anything that might put him in a bad position. But he did not know their policies regarding this situation and he did not want to get into trouble with these people – the young man's energy scared him – so he decided to give them some reward, kill Castiel and move on with his day.

"Come in," he said. He opened the door and allowed the group to walk in. "Wait here. I'll let you know what I can get you."

He turned his back to them so he could go to a supervisor and ask what they could spare. He only took a few steps when the tip of an angel blade was placed on the back of his neck. It stung a little, but Samandriel did not yet take action to stop it. He glanced aside, to a table placed to the side, where his own angel blade was lying.

"Open the door, Samandriel," Castiel said. Of course they'd lied. Without Samandriel, they couldn't get through a second door, which had been installed to keep non-angels out. Such as the two women and their friend.

"What happens if I don't?" the weight of the key seemed to have increased tenfold. He tried not to make it known where he had it on him, or even that he had it.

"You're guarding this post. I assume you can neither fly nor have access to angel radio," Castiel said. "Nothing ever happens here so they don't keep an eye on you. They won't come to your rescue. If you open the door, I will let you live."

If his opponent was anyone but Castiel, Samandriel might have won. Right now, Castiel had the upper hand. He was right.

"I can't do that," Samandriel said.

"I don't think you want to die here," Castiel said. After a long silence, he removed the angel blade from Samandriel's neck. The angel turned around, a shocked and confused gaze on his face. Castiel was winning, could have killed him, but he didn't. Was he letting Samandriel go?

"Angel leadership isn't always honest," Castiel said. "You're not the kind of fighter they're looking for when you've served your purpose and you have nothing left to offer, they will toss you aside. They'll kill you. If you open the door, I can guarantee you'll live."

Samandriel hesitated. He's seen aberrant behavior and heard the rumors. He heard about this resistance guy who became an angel and was more than ready to spill the beans to Zachariah and Michael. After giving the information, they killed the guy – his name was Marv or something like that. They hadn't wanted this Mark.

Samandriel then nodded to himself. Okay. He took the key out of his pocket. He walked to the locked door and opened it for the four intruders.

He didn't see the blade coming. Castiel hit Samandriel on the back of his head with the blade's heft and the angel slumped to the ground, unconscious. Later, Castiel could claim he deceived Samandriel and took him by surprise; he would not be killed for disobedience. And if Samandriel had any sense of survival, he could claim the same.

"Let's go," Claire said. The group walked through the door and let it fall in its lock. If they needed to make a quick escape, unless Samandriel would wake up, they could easily run back out again.

"Are you sure there aren't other doors to go through?" Meg asked.

"I don't believe there are," Castiel said. He turned his head to Sam. "This is a good plan."

It was certainly better than the one Castiel had before. In hindsight, he couldn't see himself going far beyond the door.

"Thank you," Sam responded.

"Focus on your role as a half-dead angel," Claire said. An angel could always walk around a corner and catch them. It would not help their plan if Castiel was not presenting himself as half-dead.

"I will, if you are willing to carry me all the way," Castiel said. Claire gave him a little shove.

"Don't push it."

Without any warning, Meg locked arms with Castiel, to keep up the facade. It was still as uncomfortable for him as it was before, while Meg did not seem to mind. Claire followed suit, but she was not as comfortable about this as Meg.

They wandered through the hallways and followed the directions Castiel provided them. The hallways were calm and peaceful and empty, a sharp contrast to the stress and adrenaline that rushed through their bodies. After all, it was only a matter of time before someone would find them. Castiel assumed the angels flew more than they walked, but it was still possible to come across someone.

Trouble came soon. They turned around a corner and nearly bumped into two angels who were walking somewhere in silence.

"What are you doing here?" the first angel, a brunette woman, asked.

"How did you get in here?" the other angel, an older man, then said. Neither of them fully trusted the situation at hand and they instinctively took their angel blade. They were going to be harder to convince than the younger angel.

"Through the door," Sam said. He tried to hide his stress – at least it sounded natural. "Samandriel let us in. He said to bring this fallen angel to Zachariah, but I'm afraid we got lost."

The angels eyed him and Castiel suspiciously. They felt the energy of both, which could confuse them and make them believe Sam was a young angel that now delivered Castiel to them with the help of two humans.

"What are you here for?" The woman asked. Either she did not know or she wanted to give them a chance to explain themselves. It was probably the latter.

"We found this angel half-dead," Claire answered confidently. "We thought you might want him back."

"Why didn't you kill him?" the man wondered.

"He fought back," Meg responded. "Also because of the reward your kind had promised if we return a fallen angel."

"Why didn't Samandriel accompany you?" the woman asked. "This fallen angel is still a dangerous individual."

That is when they realized they had not thought too much about the questions that the angels they encountered may have. They had no answers at the ready – they must have assumed they would easily be convinced. That was not an ideal situation.

"He's not that conscious," Sam responded. His tone was a little more hesitant. "I don't think he even realized where is now and what's going on. Samandriel thought it was safe."

"If he's not that conscious, how could he attack you?" The man asked. The two angels took a step closer to them, their overall demeanor shifting from cautiously curious to menacing.

"We can explain that," Meg said. She walked forward to meet them, being the only one not projecting even a hint of fear or anxiety. "You see…"

Meg punched the woman in the face. While she staggered backward, Meg hit her on the side of her head. She fell to the ground, dropping her angel blade. Meg snatched the blade and pushed it into the woman's heart. At the same time, Castiel used the situation to draw his angel blade and take the man by surprise and killed him.

After the double murder, Meg stood up again. She turned her head and found Sam staring at her in disbelief and shock. Claire was only surprised.

"What?" Meg said. Sam shook his head.

"Nothing." He never knew Meg was capable of doing something like this.

"We need to hurry," Castiel said. He glanced at the dead angels. "They may have warned their brothers and sisters that we're here." Angel radio was a helpful tool for the community, but not for their invaders.

They left the bodies and picked up the pace. Their footsteps echoed through the white hallways, but they tried not to mask it. They had no idea how far away Michael's office was from their current position, how much time they had left. The confidence boost from earlier melted away with every step.

Another angel crossed their path – they could not neutralize him immediately. Their location was confirmed through angel radio and not less than seven other angels flew in to surround the group. Meg, Claire, Sam, and Castiel were easily defeated by the angels, which were older and much more experienced.

Each of the invaders was held in place by two angels. Meg let it happen to her, while Claire was more rebellious. Castiel and Sam remained quiet and they made eye-contact. Castiel hoped Sam was going to put all the untamed energy inside him to good use. Sam shook his head, for he was not ready yet and he did not want to risk the devil taking over for him and not giving back control.

So they remained captive and tried not to make it worse for themselves. In the meantime, the angels were discussing their strategy with no regard for their prisoners.

"Do we kill them, then?" A blond, younger-looking angel said.

"No, we will not," another angel responded. The blond frowned.

"Zachariah wanted them alive," a third said. "Let's bring them in."

The angels agreed with this plan. They flew to Zachariah with their prisoners, to the dark dungeons where they knew Zachariah would be. The sensation of flying was strange to Sam, Claire, and Meg, and Castiel noticed they showed side-effects of flying for the first time, such as nausea, dizziness, and a loss of orientation. To Castiel, it only felt strange that they could control their flying ability whereas he still struggled to do so.

"Zachariah? We've got them."

"Excellent," a voice from the darkness said and the lights turned on.

Zachariah grinned gleefully, for he had everything he could want during this moment. He had both Castiel and Dean in his grasp. He had Sam, now, too, who would be the key to breaking Dean and who would make a fine angel. Naomi would perfectly mold him if given enough time. Claire and Meg were a nice bonus, to kill when he was bored.

Sam and Dean locked eyes for the first time in two years – this was not how they had envisioned their reunion. Both refrained from calling each other by their names, as not to give Zachariah any ideas.

"You can leave now." Zachariah addressed the angels. "I can handle them."

The angels who brought the four prisoners to Zachariah flew away. Even though Zachariah was outnumbered, none of them tried to make a move. Zachariah had been around for so long, he was almost a mythical figure who did not go public often and whose fighting skills had become legendary.

Zachariah turned his attention not to Castiel, but to Sam, with an interested look. Sam, in turn, looked at his brother. Dean watched the scene unfold with a disapproving gaze, ready to fight if necessary, even though he still hung from the ceiling at his wrists.

"You're not an angel yet, are you?" Zachariah asked. "So young, so much energy… what happened to you, boy?"

Sam refused to speak. He did not want the enemy to know about his devil.

"So you don't want to share?" Zachariah said. "That's alright. You'll talk eventually. As for you…" He turned to face Castiel, an irritated look on his face. "You just can't die, can you?"

Castiel shrugged in response.

"I guess I've been lucky." He had been extremely lucky since he left the angels. He should have already died two times. Third time's the charm; he had not wanted to waste his last chance to kill Michael and Zachariah. He still had this chance, but it was decreasing with every wasted second.

"Maybe you were," Zachariah said. "But that won't last."

He took the angel blade in his hand.

"It's that we rid this world of you, for good this time."

A shadow fell over Zachariah; another angel had joined them. Zachariah did not finish the job of killing Castiel. His face darkened, for he was shocked and frightened. Castiel, who could see who had arrived, was likewise terrified and shocked.

Michael had arrived.


	29. Apotheosis

"Michael." Zachariah lowered his angel blade and looked at him. Sam, Dean, Castiel, Claire, and Meg could also only stare at the most powerful angel in their city. Michael reveled in their awe but did not let it go to his head.

"Zachariah," he said as an acknowledgment. Zachariah nodded in response before Michael turned his attention to the group of four. Varying degrees of fear flashed across their faces and despite this terror, Castiel seemed to be the calmest and least fearful.

"Castiel," Michael said, hands in his pockets. He glanced at the fallen angel, from head to toe. "So you did come back."

"Only to cause trouble," Zachariah responded. There was no other reason he could see for which Castiel would return.

"I believe there's more to it than that," Michael said, his eyes trained on Castiel. He folded his arms and tilted his head. "You were supposed to provide us with information, not the other way around."

Michael's tone was one of a belittling parent who lectured a toddler: strict, disappointed, but Castiel – unlike a toddler – could spot the fury behind his eyes and the hostility in the tone. Michael had never liked to lose angels for whatever reason, and Castiel would undoubtedly be punished for his disobedience.

"That was unforeseen," Castiel responded. "You should not have let me go if you did not want me to fall." Castiel would not have had the chance to fall if it weren't for the mission that brought him freedom. If this hadn't gone through, Castiel would still be a loyal angel blindly following the leader's every command.

"You were going to be one of the best," Michael said. "Our only real option. Nobody was as zealous or ambitious as you were. But they came and ruined you." He glared at Claire, Meg, and Sam, who were still standing together. "It was indeed unforeseen, but I should have seen this coming. Now, it is only fitting I end your mission."

Michael drew his angel blade. Everyone stared at it, but nobody was courageous enough to stop it, and it started its descent.

Nothing happened. The looks on Michael and Zachariah's faces turned from happiness and glee and, in Zachariah's case, dread. Michael slowly lowered his blade, briefly forgetting about the murder. Castiel realized they must have received important news from angel radio.

Michael turned to Zachariah. "You told me they were dead."

"They were," Zachariah tried to defend himself, flustered. He didn't understand why this happened. "We killed them all—"

"You didn't," Michael snapped, "because Crowley is currently with them at the gate."

Castiel had gone through to Crowley, but his words only changed his mind long after Castiel had recruited Sam. The angels would not be expecting an attack so soon after they obliterated the resistance. There was no better time than 'soon' to dethrone the angels. Luckily, he knew where to find the few people that survived the attack because they were not at the party or because they had survived the massacre. Everyone he contacted agreed to help. After all, they had nothing left to lose but their lives. When he had confirmation Castiel had entered the building, Crowley gathered his troops and launched an attack. The angels were not unprepared, but they hadn't seen it coming and there was no time to figure out the best strategy to beat their attackers, as it all came so unexpectedly.

Zachariah narrowed his eyes in confusion. "What?" Crowley, in their building?

Michael came uncomfortably close to Zachariah's face. "You said you had it under control. You fix this."

Castiel decided to use the opportunity and the confusion to attack Michael. Claire and Meg were ready to fight as well, while Sam prioritized his brother. Dean was still hanging from this uncomfortable position, chained to the ceiling by his wrists. Sam could not let Dean hang there and be an easy target. Once he was freed, Dean could also help them beat these angels or die trying.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked him, worry in his eyes. He reeked of sweat and blood, the latter clotting together on his leg, to his side, on his head. Everything in his demeanor suggested exhaustion. Dean nodded.

"Nothing I can't handle," Dean said, bringing about a weak smile. He did not mention his aching wrists, numb arms, painful wounds. That did not matter – he was far more concerned about his little brother. "How about you?"

"I'm fine," Sam said, inspecting the chains. There had to be a weak link between them.

"You sure?"

"I'm handling it." There it was: a weak link, relatively close to one of Dean's wrists. One hit with a decent hammer could easily break it.

"Still that bad?" Dean wondered, a frown on his face. Sam nodded, looking for the tool that would allow him to free Dean. One hammer was lying near the wall. Sam needed only to pick it up and use it.

"Watch out!" Sam turned around too late; Zachariah rushed towards him, grabbed Sam's neck and slammed him into the wall. He tried to pry Zachariah's strong fingers loose, but he was not strong enough and it didn't help how he couldn't breathe properly. Deann called out his name and swung around, hoping to hit Zachariah, but they were too far away to deal any damage.

His devil thought it appropriate to make an appearance. He'd folded his arms and grinned widely. He was amused – this may be one of the scenarios he'd foreseen.

"I did tell you you'd die if you came here," the devil said. This was exactly what he wanted – an opportunity to gain access to Sam's body, to do substantial damage, to possibly stay forever and rule with an iron fist or destroy everything in his path.

Zachariah was staring at Sam while he struggled. His gaze suggested intrigue.

"With such power," the angel declared. "You could be on our side. Instead, you waste away at the hospital."

"See? Even Zachariah agrees," the devil said. Sam tried to block him out, but with so many factors at play, ignoring him became harder and harder.

"You'll be on our side one day," Zachariah asserted. He tightened his grip around Sam's throat. "You will help your brother give up resistance names or do so yourself. And when we're done, you will be the one to kill Dean."

That was the last straw. Sam's devil was ecstatic.

"Oh yeah!" he shouted. "Here we go."

Sam was overtaken by rage. Those absolutes were false. But they were enough for his mind to take him down dark places where dark thoughts resided. He would never be one of them if he killed all of them. He did have the power, it was accumulating and swirling within him. Why not use it?

Zachariah was stunned by the surge in power, by the rising energy levels that overwhelmed his senses. He staggered backward, letting go of his prisoner.

Sam smiled. This felt good. This made him powerful and mighty. Nobody could stop him. The devil slipped away, slipped into his mind, ready to merge with his host. Sam did not resist, nor did he mind. They would kill the angels and would be glorious.

Dean called his name. Sam turned his head. The positive connotations of the power melted away and the bad implications stuck. He and the devil would not be equals and Sam would forever be a puppet, an empty shell of who he was. He could not let that happen.

Sam could not lose control.

"No."

He pushed the devil out of his mind, out of reach, but the power was still at his fingertips. It had been building up and Sam could not push it down. There was too much of it; the one way to get rid of it was to release it.

Sam extended his arm towards Zachariah and a white beam hit him. It blasted him to the other side of the room, slammed him into the wall. Zachariah fell to the ground and he did not get back up.

The energy faded and its absence almost made Sam faint. He could not keep his balance, but he was standing. He'd beaten his devil, he got it out of his system, Zachariah was knocked out. That was all that mattered.

Then, Sam went over to the hammer he'd seen and picked it up. He also grabbed an old wooden chair and walked back to Dean, pleasantly surprised and incredibly worried.

"I didn't know you could do that," Dean said. Sam positioned the chair in front of Dean and stood on it, looking for the right angle to break the weak link.

"Me neither—" Sam responded as he placed the hammer in the right position. Dean frowned.

"You—" He tilted his head. "Then what are you doing here? I mean, it's impressive, but also dangerous."

"I'm helping out," Sam said and he shattered the weak link. Dean fell. He tried to land on his feet, but after hanging from the ceiling for more than three days, his legs had become weak.

Sam tossed the hammer aside and got off the chair. He helped Dean on his feet and then embraced him. Dean did not so much hug back as he was holding on for dear life. This felt good – after two years, they could finally interact again.

"I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too, Sammy."

* * *

Castiel charged at Michael. He was incredibly lucky the angels who had captured him had not thought to confiscate his angel blade, for they had been too busy discussing with one another. Finally, he had the chance to do what he came here to do.

Michael wasn't stupid. He was able to predict Castiel's moves because Castiel only was trained at the most basic level. Though they were both angels, Michael had the upper hand with the experience, with more abilities and better fighting skills. It was great that Claire and Meg decided to help. Whenever Castiel was pushed away or slammed to the ground, one of the women jumped in to continue the fight. By the time both women were thrown on the floor, Castiel had gotten up and fought Michael again.

Even though Michael was outnumbered three to one, he did not worry. He may have even believed it was funny how they tried to beat him in combat. He was the superior fighter.

"Is that the best you've got?" Michael asked, an arrogant smile on his lips.

Castiel reacted by stepping forward and trying to stab him, but Michael parried every blow. It seemed impossible to lay a hand on him. Even worse, Michael may be holding back and waiting for the right moment to strike, after he's had his fun.

Then, on the other side of the room, Sam fired some white energy beam out of his hand and hit Zachariah.

Michael may have waited for this moment. While Meg, Claire, and Castiel were distracted, Michael turned from a nuisance to a lethal force. He grabbed Castiel's head and slammed it into the wall. It was hard enough for Castiel to become disoriented and lose consciousness for some moments.

When the fallen angel got up, the dizziness hadn't faded yet. Meg lay not too far away from him, having been caught in the crossfire, in a pool of her blood. Claire was backing away from Michael, who seemed to take pleasure in the chase. She was driven into a corner – Michael came closer to her, savoring every moment.

Michael drew his angel blade – the game was over. He glanced in Castiel's direction and grinned at him before turning to Claire. Claire could no longer back away, but she could make herself smaller. She seemed terrified, whereas she was once so brave. She screamed.

Michael would kill her.

Fury rose within Castiel. His mind brought him back to the burning house. He stared at the flames while Claire screamed behind him. She had needed him the most at that moment, while he had disregarded and discarded her. He let her down. He could not let her down again. He could not leave her there to die at the hands of such a cruel man.

_Not my daughter._

Castiel stood up and flew.

It was a wonderful feeling that should last longer than the hundredth of a second; it was freedom and bliss, it was speed and calm. It was everything he thought it would feel like when he spread his wings and would enjoy it.

He landed on unstable feet, landed right between Claire and Michael. His mission was clear, his goal near. He had held his angel blade while flying – now, it was stuck in Michael's chest, where his heart was.

Michael did not know what was going on, what the pain was in his chest. He stared at Castiel, who glared back. He only noticed the blade when he looked down. He pulled it out of his chest, but the damage was already done. Castiel had struck Michael's heart, the one thing their healing abilities could not heal in time to save the angel. The blade dropped to the ground as Michael sank through his knees, never to get up again.

Castiel released his breath. The impossible had become possible. Not even the pain in his abdomen could take this one moment of euphoria from him.

But the pain overwhelmed him and he fell over. Michael's blade was stuck in Castiel's liver, and blood leaked out of the wound, stained the blade and his clothes. Claire called his name – or did she shout 'dad'? – and sat by his side. Sam and Dean joined her and stared at Castiel. Dean kept a respectable distance, but Sam came close to Michael's body and checked for a pulse.

"That was stupid," Dean said. "Brave, but stupid."

"I stabbed back this time," Castiel responded and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, that's obvious," Dean responded at the same time Sam stepped away from Michael's body.

"He's dead." Michael had no pulse; the leader of the angels was dead, and the vacuum would need to be filled.

Claire reached for the blade in Castiel's abdomen, to pull it out. When she placed the hand on the heft, Castiel put his hand on hers.

"Don't." This confused Sam and Claire, while Dean shook his head in annoyance.

"Not this again."

"What again?" Sam wondered.

"He's keeping the blade in there to keep him from bleeding out, but so long as it's in there, his body isn't going to heal itself."

"That's bullshit," Claire responded and she pulled. Castiel's firm grasp on her hand kept it in place, but he couldn't prevent the blade from being pulled out by two inches.

"No," Castiel said sternly. "Keep it there." It would prevent the bleeding. He refused to bleed to death in the dungeons of the angel headquarters.

Claire removed her hand from the blade. She noticed he was now bleeding more. She thought it was her fault and felt incredibly guilty. Why did she even try to do this?

In the meantime, Castiel became light-headed. Everything he heard became distant and his energy slowly slipped away. He was going to need help. Luckily, Dean noticed the same;

"We've got to get him out of here," he said and looked at Sam. "Can you fly?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't think so." It already was a miracle he'd been able to hit Zachariah with that raw energy. He wasn't sure if he could ever replicate that, or even if he could access these powers again.

Dean sighed and looked at Castiel. "Then we'll have to carry him."

* * *

Castiel barely remembered being taken out of the building. By the time they found a stable surface to put him on, he was already slipping in and out of consciousness. He was barely able to keep his eyes open when the sun shone on them. It wasn't bright, but it did lighten the mood for him.

He turned his head to the right. Three ambulances were lined up, waiting to transport anyone who was injured, as was usual. This must be the first time they came to the angel headquarters. Had there been more? Maybe, but that did not matter – there still was an ambulance there for him, and his friends were taking him there.

He was too tired to keep his eyes open. The wooden plank beat against his back with every movement, though nothing compared to the pain in his abdomen. They moved him to a more comfortable stretcher. Dean told the accompanying nurse what had happened, but he omitted many names and twisted the truth in such a way that it sounded like they had come in with Crowley's forces.

"What's his name?" the nurse asked.

"Jimmy Novak," Claire responded without hesitation.

And Castiel fell asleep as they rolled him into the ambulance.


	30. Revenge

Zachariah woke up feeling terrible. His body ached everywhere and his pride had taken a big hit.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

The dungeon was empty. Sam and Dean had abandoned him, and Castiel and his two girlfriends were nowhere to be seen either. Only Zachariah and two dead bodies remained: one of the girls', and Michael's.

Zachariah knew it was Michael. No other angel had been inside when they attacked, and none of them resembled the highest angel. It was one of the saddest events in his life – it was always mournful when an angel leader perished. And yet, it was weirdly relieving as well. It was freeing not to have to answer to a senior angel, while Zachariah himself was the oldest. This did not take away from the crime that been committed.

Zachariah was oblivious to the murderer. He had been unconscious when it happened; any of the surviving rebels could have done this. Despite this gap in his knowledge, his mind jumped to the unruly fallen angel who couldn't leave well-enough alone.

He spread the message through angel radio. Michael has been murdered. Retaliate against the rebels. It resonated through the minds of the angels as they spread it, becoming the dominant thought in their minds.

Slowly, that began to shift. Michael has been killed still went around, but they came with intonations of happiness, joy, confusion, anger, and a new thought went around: kill the traitors, undoubtedly those who felt happiness for Michael's death.

Zachariah was furious. It only took the death of their leader for the angel race as a whole to fall apart. Unity broke off in two parties: traitors and loyalists. It was unclear at the moment how many angels adhered to one group.

Cowards! Fools abandon their divine posts and choose to help the enemy while everything they once proudly stood for fell apart around them. The traitors would rather fall than to defend their birthright; hey would rather take the difficult road of reintegration than choosing to do the easy thing and to defend their angelic nature and superiority.

Traitors fell, but loyalists were locked up by them. Did they even fight? Did they defend themselves? Did they resist the traitors when they were attacked for standing by their righteous beliefs? Not enough, because they allowed themselves to be locked up or killed instead of fleeing. If they did, they would not broadcast those thoughts.

But whose fault was it this was happening? It wasn't his fault, surely it wasn't. The blame belonged to someone else entirely.

Michael.

Zachariah shook his head.

No, not Michael. Michael only ever wanted the best for his new race of angels and did everything in his power so that they could continue to exist without the humans trying to eliminate them all.

No. This was Castiel's fault.

Yes! He had a mission to accomplish. He should have torn down the resistance from the inside out. But he didn't – he refused. The resistance had successfully brainwashed him; why else would he change his allegiance? He was such a loyal soldier, he even had burned down his own house with the woman inside. The resistance had turned him into their perfect puppet with insider information.

Zachariah would deal with his sons later. They were merely human – irritating and powerful, yes, but merely human. They could never match his strength or intellect. No, he needed to deal with the fallen angel, the instigator of this entire turn of events, the unnecessary revolution. Castiel must promptly be dealt with.

Zachariah searched and found Castiel in the hospital. Castiel lay in a separate room from other patients, for his privacy or protection. They had hooked him up to many machines. He lay on the bed, unconscious and weak. Was he aware of what was going on? Did he realize what happened around him, was he aware of the needles in his arms and sensors on his chest? His bare arms were placed on top of the blankets, next to his body. Zachariah would have almost called this scene peaceful, something you shouldn't disturb.

Zachariah walked closer to stand next to Castiel. He stabbed the fallen angel in the chest.

And again.

And again.

Only when the monitor sounded a long high-pitched beep – the absence of a heartbeat – did Zachariah leave, satisfied with his actions.


	31. Promises

It snowed the day they buried Castiel.

Castiel was not laid to rest in the cemetery, but outside city walls. It was nothing more than a formality, a sign of respect – dead angels were usually unceremoniously tossed on a funeral pyre. The angel casualties of last week were given no different treatment; the survivors saw it fit that they, too, would be burned and forgotten. Loyalists and secret traitors were cremated, corps on corps, without judgment or difference. The only angel to be buried was the one that had earned the trust of the resistance and showed his allegiance.

Sam and Dean visited the grave one week after his death. They wanted to come earlier, but they had been too occupied to visit. But today, they could come, and they were not alone. They had been accompanied by Claire and Bobby. The group stared at the tombstone in silence and reminisced about the angel and, more importantly, the future.

"Are you okay?" Dean eventually asked Claire. She hadn't said much since Castiel had died.

"I'm fine." She kept her eyes on the tombstone.

"We're heading east soon," Bobby then said. "She'll do great." He had found other people to come along on their newest mission: to find out where Zachariah had gone. He was not in this city anymore, which meant that he had to be somewhere else. Somewhere outside of this city. The journey to other cities was going to be long and hard, and there was no telling whether they would be getting any help from the locals. It would be difficult, but at least there wouldn't be an immediate void.

"She's coming with you?" Sam asked. Neither he nor Dean had expected her to agree.

"If Zachariah's in the east, that's where we'll go," she responded. It would be logical for Zachariah to flee to the east. Michael had wanted to expand his influence in that direction, as he heard some settlements and cities also had angels that were 'in desperate need of a leader'. Zachariah could find like-minded people out there.

"It won't be quick and easy," Bobby told the boys. "It may take months." They might not even return from this, but that depended on how well their mission would go.

They were not just saying goodbye to Castiel. Bobby hugged Sam and Dean while Claire watched and nodded at them when their gazes crossed. They held onto one another longer than was necessary. They could not let go just yet.

"Be safe out there," Dean said. "Both of you."

"You, too." Bobby looked at the brothers with pride.

"Good luck," Sam said. He hoped they would return home as soon as their mission allowed, hoped that they would return having known success.

And Bobby and Claire left the cemetery just as it stopped snowing, their footprints the only sign that they were ever-present at the tombstone with the brothers.

In the meantime, Sam and Dean lingered in front of the tombstone. Neither of them seemed to want to return to the city yet. It was peaceful out there; the world seemed muted. Not even the birds chirped. The world had gone white instead of black. There as hope. Their world was far from perfect still, but there was light at the end of the tunnel. It was right there.

They had made it.

Now, what could they do with their lives?

"So…" Sam eventually asked, turning his head to Dean. "Are you going to accept the council's invitation?"

Dean shook his head hesitantly. "Well…"

"You're not going?"

"It's not right."

Sam did not agree with this answer. Dean had all the necessary qualities to govern a big city like he had governed the resistance. There was a reason the newly-founded city council had sent him an invitation. Why would it not feel right?

"You lead the resistance."

"With help." Bobby was always by his side when big decisions needed to be taken and most decisions were taken by the resistance council, of which Dean was the youngest member.

"You're leadership material," Sam said.

"In wartime," Dean specified. Silence briefly fell between the brothers. Sam hoped for an elaboration, while Dean thought of the right words.

"I can plan an attack strategy," Dean said. "I can kill people in a dozen different ways. But I can't do the mundane. I don't have traffic regulations and taxation policies. Crowley does."

"The people don't want another angel in a position of power."

Crowley may have fallen, but the people had just deposed of a dictatorial angel. They would be more in favor of a human leading the new council and the city than an angel, no matter how well or efficiently said angel would run the city.

"Why don't you want a seat in the council?" Dean asked his brother. He should have expected the question, but he had not thought about an answer beforehand. The answer was – or should be – obvious.

"What?"

"You don't seem so keen on being, on the council, either. You'd do a great job, too."

"I'm not okay," Sam responded, a serious look on his face. A small voice in his head whispered something he could not make out. It might have been something his devil would say. His mind was reacting to the comment, reminding Sam of what has been, of what might still be.

"But you said you hadn't seen your devil in a week," Dean said in a confused tone. As far as he was concerned, Sam was fine. Of course, there was still trauma, but his devil should be completely gone.

"He may not be around at the moment, but he's not gone." Sam shook his head. "He can't be gone; I can still feel him." His devil would come back and strike hard, and he didn't want to be in a council meeting getting worked up to allow his devil to aggravate him or even take control. He did not want to slaughter the council.

"If he isn't gone, he could stay quiet," Dean countered the argument. "Your control might've scared him."

Sam shook his head. "I'm not risking it."

"I understand."

Dean turned his gaze to the landscape. He had never really liked the snow, but he appreciated the scenery, the serenity that it brought.

"I still can't quite believe it's over," Sam then said.

"It's not over yet," Dean pointed out. "Not while Zachariah is still alive."

"Bobby will make sure the bastard's not coming back," Sam reassured him. They would not hear from Zachariah again in any way unless it came from Bobby's mouth when he returned victoriously.

"I hope so." Dean glanced at Castiel's tombstone. "Or he'll be pissed."

Sam shrugged, a small smile on his face. "Probably."

After their final goodbye to Castiel, the brothers returned to the city, returned home without having to worry about being gunned down or taking many sideroads to throw off anyone who tried to follow them. Next week, they would be able to celebrate Christmas together again, for the first time without the threat of angels disrupting their festivities.

The world was far from perfect. But for those sweet moments, it seemed like the world was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this all the way to the end. While this is probably going to be my only multi-chapter SPN fanfiction, I loved writing this and sharing it with you. I hope you liked it, and I'll hopefully see you next time.


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